


Come the Ages

by MorbidDramaMaker



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, 1950s, Adult Hermione Granger, Dark, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Magic, Making up magic, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Not a time travel school au, POV Third Person Limited, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Rise of Voldemort, Runes, Time Travel, We're not in Hogwarts anymore kiddos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27426028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorbidDramaMaker/pseuds/MorbidDramaMaker
Summary: "She didn't come with the intention of changing things. In fact, if anything, Hermione Granger arrived with little more but the intent to swiftly leave. But fate is a fickle thing, and no number of hours in the library seemed to be helping her cause." Trapped in 1946, Hermione is already having the worst of luck when she catches the interest of one Mr. Tom Riddle.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love the "Hermione-ends-up-in-Hogwarts-in-the-1940s" trope to death, but I wanted to try something a little different. This is one of my favorite ships. Please enjoy!
> 
> Note: while I frequently love playing in the universe built by JK Rowling, I am firmly against the propaganda she's promoted against our trans brothers and sisters.

**-XXX-**

"I don't know what this crest means," she says, tracing the outline on the lid. Its a mysterious symbol, something snakelike and foreign. Very Malfoy-esque, which is fitting considering they are raiding their dungeons.

The unspeakable beside her looks over briefly, then murmurs something unintelligible. Across the room, Harry and Dawlish are examining a cursed painting. They don't seem to hear her.

Perfectly used to this behavior, the young witch carries the object over to a lacquered oriental buffet for inspection. She waves her wand over the box, then taps it, willing any evilness or curses to reveal themselves. When nothing happens she turns to the lock. It takes a few tries beyond " _Alohamora,"_ but she soon has it open. Cautiously lifting the lid, Hermione is surprised by what she is met with – bright, tinkling notes of music.

"A music box?" she whispers, incredulous, staring into the mirror set in the lid. When she looks up, the room is shifting.

Hermione opens her mouth, scream at the ready. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, like a dramatic scene in an action film. Harry has turned back to look at her, eyes widening behind the lenses of his glasses. She can see him mouth her name. He lunges for her. Hermione releases the box, letting it tumble down towards the floor. It makes contact with the stone of the dungeon's floor, clattering loudly the second Hermione disappears from view in a flash of light.

**-XXX-**

She didn't come with the intention of changing things. In fact, if anything Hermione Granger arrived with little more but the intent to swiftly _leave._ But fate is a fickle thing, and no number of hours in the library seemed to be helping her cause. Every day spent in 1946 tethers her to it even more – like her ties to 1999 are breaking, so that she is being restrung for this new year, this new life.

"I can't stay here," she tells Dumbledore.

It's the not-quite-right Dumbledore, the one with a trimmed auburn beard and fondness for scarves. He still possessive those bright, twinkling blue eyes. Harry used to describe them as x-rays, able to see through anything and anyone.

"Of course, my dear," he sooths readily. "But –"

"No, you don't understand." She cut across him - something pre-time-abducted Hermione would have never done to entirely-right Albus Dumbledore. But the transfiguration professor just smiles placidly as she hurriedly explains herself. "School is starting up again in just a week. I can't stay here with the new semester – I'd say it's pretty clear that I'm older than 17."

He folds his hands upon his desk, watching her intently. "What do you propose then, Miss Granger?"

"I should leave Hogwarts. I don't know where I'll go…if I could be somewhere near a library, or a large resource of books, potion making materials…."

"Diagon Alley would be a suitable location," the professor says thoughtfully. "You'd be safe there. In our community, near the Ministry. And there is quite a sizeable library in London, perfect for your research efforts."

"Oh, but that sounds very expensive," she begins, hesitant. She came here with little more than the clothes on her back and her wand.

"The Ministry shall cover initial costs, of course."

"But I couldn't –"

"It is only right," Dumbledore says, holding up a hand. "After all, it sounds as though it was on the Ministry's watch that you were sent here, Miss Granger. Think of it as compensation. We can, of course, find you a position so that in a few month's time you may be able to support yourself financially."

While the offer is kind, Hermione finds herself sickened at the thought. She doesn't _want_ to be here longer than a few more days, let alone months! But Dumbledore is likely right; it will take some time for her to find the answer to her time-trapped conundrum, that is, if she ever manages to find an answer.

"I suppose that makes sense," Hermione says slowly. "If is not much trouble. You've already done so much to help me, Professor Dumbledore."

He pats her hand fondly. "It is not the least bit of trouble, Hermione."

**-XXX-**

The flat isn't much – two whole rooms, not including the water closet. When they enter it's teeth-chatteringly cold. Dumbledore is quick to start a fire in the small hearth as Hermione pokes around. Though rather small, it's been outfitted comfortably with a bed, chest of drawers, a sofa and threadbare armchair, and a tiny table for two. There are a handful of windows. The one in her bedroom lets in an awful draft, but it's east-facing, which nearly makes up for the cold.

"This is nice," she says. "I'll be quite content here. Thank you so much, sir. I cannot tell you how much your help has meant to me."

"My pleasure, Hermione." He crosses to the armchair, sinking down. "Is there anything else you need here? I made sure they stocked your pantry, so you should be set for the next several days. There is an account at Gringots for you, under your new name. And here is half of your first stipend." He places a small velvet coin purse upon the coffee table. "Your trunk ought to be in your bedroom, along with your purchases from this morning."

He had been kind enough to accompany her on a short trip around Diagon Alley that morning to find necessities such as robes, a few potion ingredients, and plenty of writing materials – she would need them to figure out a new formula or potion for returning. Earlier, he'd allowed her access to the immense collection of lost clothes that generations of students had left behind at the end of term and never reclaimed. She selected several more casual, every-day items of clothing that would suit trips into muggle London.

His generosity was baffling, as he barely knew her and had little reason to trust her, despite what Hermione had revealed upon arriving in 1946. Their initial meeting had been an uncomfortable one, as she's hastily spouted out a few personal facts regarding his family life that had made the transfiguration professor red in the face.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "May I offer you some tea, or –" She faltered, not knowing what else she might have to offer.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," he replied jovially.

Hermione filled the kettle and started the stove with immense focus. She noted the trickiness of the kitchen, the odd kind of icebox, and the small pile of _The Magic of Cookery_ magazines in one back corner of the counter. She absently wondered how the future headmaster knew of her abysmal lack of skill in the kitchen, but was interrupted by the screaming of the kettle.

Dumbledore accepted his teacup with a smile. She perched herself upon the couch and waited. After several seconds of sipping, the professor spoke again.

"I do not relish the idea of leaving you alone here, so I intend on sharing correspondence at least once a week. And, if you'd like, perhaps meet at the Leaky Cauldron for dinner every so often."

"I appreciate that, sir."

"Never hesitate to contact me or the Ministry should you need anything," he says seriously. "You're in a special position here, Miss Granger. Should a single thing feel out of place, should you become ill, should you require a thing, do not feel as though you must handle it on your own. Promise me this, Hermione."

Solemn, she nods. "Yes, Professor."

At the time, she fully intends on keeping that promise.

**-XXX-**

During her first day, Hermione uses the limited knowledge she has on household magic to make the place feel more homey. The windows are cleaned, and with fresh light streaming in a little too brightly, she conjures some floral curtains to brighten the place up with color. She puts a cranberry-colored blanket upon the bed, and fluffs the pillows. The hearth's tiles are polished, and on the mantle she puts her small store of books, and a few framed pictures.

She has been lucky enough to find her beaded purse in the robe's she initially appeared in. Hermione had taken to carrying the thing around with her, fully stocked with books and potion making materials. In it, she found a few pictures of herself, Harry, and Ron, from Fleur and Bill's wedding. Last times they'd been relatively happy before they had to go on the run.

There were also more clothes in there, things she'd forgotten to remove when the war had ended. A few sweaters, some shoes, and two pairs of trousers. In the very bottom she found a small box filled with trinkets from her parents. Mostly jewelry, a few spare buttons, and a several old hair ribbons. When she was little girl her mother had insisted on using them as a way of taming her mane. Feeling a little sentimental, Hermione selects a red ribbon and ties back her hair.

In the evening, the flat becomes too, too quiet. Over the last two weeks Hermione has been so busy trying to find a way out, reading all hours of the day and night, that she has barely had time to dwell on her loneliness. But now that she is alone, without much to do….

"Tomorrow," she says to herself. "I will go to the Magical Menagerie and purchase a cat. Yes. A cat will be just the thing."

**-XXX-**

She finds a pure black sleek little thing, a creature that looks exactly like a witch's cat should. The cliché should bother her, but Hermione can't bring herself to care. It's shy, hiding in one back corner of the shop, cowering from the other creatures and from Hermione, but she tempts it out with a soft voice and gentle hand. The shopwitch says it's a skittish, tempermental kitten, but Hermione pushes over the appropriate number of sickles and apparates home.

The cat, who she names Onyx, warily explores the flat for approximately three hours before curling up in the middle of the bed, so that Hermione is forced to ease onto the mattress and spoon around the little creature.

The next morning she wakes to find a tail being playfully teased in her face.

**-XXX-**

Even when she had been in her time, Hermione had never had a chance to visit the London Library of Magic. It is one of five libraries of magic that is open to the public. It rivaled the library at Alexandria (another magic library) in content. The library at Hogwarts is the only comparison on the continent.

Despite her circumstances, Hermione is a ball of energy when she approaches the steps. Through the huge double doors, she is quavering with excitement. There are _so many_ books at her disposal. _"Where to start…."_

But she all too quickly remembers that there is one specific subject she needs to be studying. A little disappointed, she resigns herself to asking the librarian – a kindly old witch who appears far friendlier than Madam Pince – where she might find a few books on time travel.

"Third floor, to the left, my dear," she answers, writing down a few helpful suggestions.

Of course, she becomes distracted on her way up to the third floor, and finds herself cross-legged on the floor in the middle of one row, engrossed in a dissertation on the use of bowtruckle bark in mood-altering potions. That's where he comes across her – and by "come across," she means "stumbled upon." Literally.

She's nearly bowled over when someone bumps into her wandering down the row. Hermione squeaks, scrambling to her feet. When she stands, she's angrily face-to-face with a surprised young man. A handsome surprised young man. He's a little too pale for her taste, but he has a sculpted face, grey-green eyes framed by thick lashes, and dark, wavy hair that has been meticulously styled. And he's quite tall, looming over her, still looking terribly surprised and annoyed. As she smooth her skirts he schools his expression to something more impassive.

"Whatever did you mean by that?" she demands.

"By what?" he replies just as hotly. "You were the one foolish enough to sit in the middle of the floor where anyone could run across you. Thankfully," he sneers. "I wasn't running, else I've no doubt you'd be down the stairs on the landing with a broken neck by now."

"Yes, thankfully! Because regular people run in libraries." She sniffs. "An apology would be appropriate now, I think."

"I agree." He pauses. "Well? Are you going to apologize for being in my way?"

"Me? No, no, you're the one who needs to apologize," Hermione exclaims. "You knocked me over!"

The man purses his lips. "I believe we are at an impasse. Why don't we agree to disagree, then go about our way, eh?"

Hermione crosses her arms, channeling her very best McGonagall expression of intimidation. Unfortunately, it doesn't work. He's looking down his nose at her with a smirk. Eventually, the man speaks.

"Very well, shall we now vow to be mortal enemies for life, then?" he asks seriously. The smirk turns into a real smile. Hermione cannot help but break her own glare and return it.

"If you'd like," she replies fairly. "Though it may just be easier to go about our day, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose," he drawls. Bending down, he retrieves a scrape of paper from the floor, looking over the writing before offering it to Hermione. "Yours?"

"Yes –" She reaches for the paper, but he pulls it back.

"Time travel books? Do you have a desire to visit the renaissance? Perhaps hold council with cavemen?"

"No," she says, snatching the paper from him. "It's just a passing interest. Some light reading, you know."

"That is not light reading."

"Maybe not for you," she condescends.

Suddenly, the man grins. "Interesting topic, time travel. The Ministry has been doing quite a lot research on it lately." He tilts his head. "Are you in the Ministry?"

"No," she says. "I'm not. It's just something I am interested in."

He clearly wants to continue conversing, but Hermione hikes her purse up on her shoulders and offers a hand.

"Well, I'd say it was nice meeting you, but –" She makes a face. "I'll be going now."

"Without your name or anything?"

Hermione glances back. She can't help but smile. But she doesn't reply, merely heads up to the third floor.

Later, that night in bed, as she goes over her notes from the library and reflects on her day, she thinks of the young man. She didn't anticipate anyone from the 1940s to be so…so….

She doesn't have the words for it, she decides.

**-XXX-**

It's only a week later when she nervously enters Florish and Blott's to request an application. The person tending the till is polite, and offers her a quill with which to fill out the form, and even points her to a quiet back table. She spends a long time answering the questions, even ones that should be easy – references, past experience, et cetera. Eventually, she's forced to list Dumbledore as her only reference (which should really be more than enough), and no job experience.

She returns the completed application to the front. The wizard at the register reads over it really quickly, flashing her a grin when he's done. "This looks perfect, Miss Garner."

"Oh, so that is your name?" a voice says behind her.

Hermione turns to see _him,_ the man from the library. She's half pleased, half exasperated. "You again?"

"Me." He puts one hand in the pocket of his robes. "You know, we've never been properly introduced, Miss Garner."

"I am well aware."

The shopkeeper is hardly containing a smile, but says nothing.

Hand out, the man steps closer. "Tom Riddle."

She stares at the hand, then at the man – at Tom Riddle. Her lower lip quivers as she stumbles forward. But she doesn't accept the offered limb. Instead, Hermione makes a dash for it, fleeing the bookshop, heart racing faster than a Firebolt at full speed. She hopes the impression won't prevent her application from being considered.

**-XXX-**

It was terribly rude, she thinks later. But he was the person who killed Harry's parents, not to mention a whole slew of other people. He'd also created an entire cult of people who would have been ecstatic to squeeze the breath out of her.

_"There is no shame in being afraid,"_ she tells herself over a cup of cocoa after the incident. _"Especially not when the fear is of him."_

**-XXX-**


	2. Chapter 2

**-XXX-**

The job is hers. They owl her before the next week is out. Hermione promptly writes Dumbledore – he's the only person she can relay good news to, and this really feels like something she should share with someone. The owl returns with a Honeyduke's chocolate bar and a note of congratulations.

After her second morning shift, Hermione decides she needs some fresh wormwood. However, there's a potion she's never heard of further down the Alley – a patron of Flourish and Blotts mentioned it today. She sets off to find it –

And promptly gets lost.

She's usually not so bad at finding her way. After all, hadn't she navigated when they'd all been running from Voldemort's regime?

Somehow, Hermione finds herself in Knockturn Alley, which is notably darker and dingier than Diagon Alley. And colder. She works her way down the snow-covered cobbles, desperately searching for a way back. Backtracking hasn't helped, and after nearly twenty minutes of being leered at by various wretches, she's feeling quite uncomfortable. Her hand in her cloak pocket, Hermione keeps a firm grip upon her wand.

" _Constant vigilance."_

The thought of Mad-Eye pains her briefly, and Hermione closes her eyes for a fraction of a second. It's a fraction of a second too long.

"Hello there, beauty."

One of the men who have been watching her comes out from beneath the shadowy awning. He gives her a mostly-toothless grin. "What brings a sweet little chit such as yourselves down here?"

Before she can answer, a pockmarked hand has attached itself to her wrist. Hermione attempts to tug away, but with no avail. The wretch has a lock-like grip upon her. She's about to whip out her arm, send a bat-boey hex towards him, but she's interrupted by another's spell.

" _Everte Statum!"_

The fool goes flying, hitting a garbage can with a squeal. Hermione turns around swiftly to see Tom Riddle breathing heavily nearly a block away. He jogs towards her, catching her arms to hold her before him.

"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?" Tom demands, searching her face, eyes sparking with fury.

"N-no," she manages. "I'm f-f-fine."

He doesn't look convinced. Without a word, he leads her back towards the man in the garbage. Coldly, Riddle regards him. He then abruptly flicks his wand. The wretch screams. Both wrists, Hermione can see, are broken, with thick bands of burns upon them to top.

Her first thought it to be impressed with Riddle's voiceless magic. Her second is to scold herself for thinking as much. And her third is to feel slightly appalled by his display of vigilante justice.

"You shouldn't touch people when they don't want to be touched, sir," he hisses. Hermione feels an urge to draw away, but his grip upon her is tight. Funny how her savior is scaring her far more than her attacker. Except, it really isn't funny.

" _One creep in exchange for another."_

Tom says nothing as he leads Hermione away from the whimpering man. She's unfocused, too surprised by his past actions to notice the ones currently being executed – namely, the fact that she is being lead to Borgin and Burkes, probably one of the last places she wants to be at the moment. But Tom doesn't appear to have a mind for what she desires, so she stays quiet and lets him take her inside. Her guts twist unpleasantly as she scans the merchandise. Cursed opals, polish bones, chess sets that kill…not her kind of store.

"Come on," he says, gently touching her shoulder. He'd dropped her hand since they entered the store. "You look like you could use some tea."

"I –" She can't get out any protest. Her stomach makes a sudden noise, effectively shutting her up.

Riddle's eyebrow rise. "Hungry, too, then? Come on, Garner."

Hesitant, Hermione follows.

In the messy, cramped backroom, she is offered a seat at a table piled high with various papers. He starts the kettle, then rummages around in a black tin lunch box, removing a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. He uses his wand to cut it – diagonally, just the way she likes her sandwiches cut – and splits it with her. Hermione eats slowly, avoiding eye contact. In a few minutes he pushes a cup of tea in front of her. It's drained quickly. He makes her another cup, then pulls an apple from his lunch sack to split with her. All the while, Tom watches.

"What are you doing down here?" he finally asks. "I don't mean to sound snobbish, but this isn't exactly your kind of place."

Her nose wrinkles at his bad joke. "I didn't mean to come down here. I was looking for a potions shop on Diagon Alley. I must have made a wrong turn…and ended up here." She shivers. "And you're right. This isn't my preferred part of town."

"What kind of potions supplies are you in the market for?" The question is a casual one. Hermione stares at her tealeaves.

"Just a few things. Moonstone, bit of nettle, ginger root, sage," she rattles off ingredients, failing to mention a few key ones. She does not list enough in common to allow him to suspect what it is she's truly after. Riddle holds the silence a little longer than necessary.

"Well, once you're up to it I can show you back to Diagon Alley and point you in the right direction."

She protests – it is too much trouble, he mustn't. _"Besides,"_ she thinks. _"I've long had my mind made up that I'm going to avoid you as much as humanly possibly."_ But Riddle insists, saying he has a delivery he needs to make that way anyways. So she grudgingly lets him lead her out of the shop and back to the light.

A few eyes follow them down both Knockturn and Diagon Alley. Both stare straight ahead. Hermione keeps close to Riddle, despite her reluctance. When he stops before crossing the street, she runs straight into his back, nearly breaking her nose with the forceful contact. He turns back to her, smirking slightly. She rubs her nose, glaring back.

When they're standing before the apothecary, near the Leaky Caldron, Hermione offers a hand. Riddle stares at it for several seconds, glancing between the limb and her expression before accepting the gesture. They shake firmly. Tom smiles at her, almost genuinely. Then again, she can't really tell what's true and fake of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"Thank you," she says sincerely. "I really appreciate it, Mr. Riddle."

"I am glad you appreciate it." He leans back, looking at her curiously. "I wonder, now will you tell me your name?"

"You know my name."

"Not your first name. Garner isn't much to go off of – there are hundreds of them in this city alone. Come on. I think we've had enough instances of running into one another to merit that, don't you? You know my name. It's a fair exchange."

Hermione looks at him for a long moment, considering. His eyes are locked onto hers, stormy and keen. They're just a little too bright for her liking. She doesn't want to tell him – to tell would be giving a piece of her mystery, her security. _"But it is just a name…."_

"Very well," she sighs. "Beatrice. Beatrice Garner, if you must know."

He's still holding her hand. Riddle squeezes briefly. "Thank you," he says. "Beatrice."

Hermione draws her hand back. She doesn't say another word as she heads inside the apothecary.

**-XXX-**

Somehow the fiend finds out her work schedule and begins appearing in the shop just often enough to drive her bonkers. She cannot stand that the work in such a relatively close proximity to one another. What's even more terrifying is the idea that he might even live close, too. Hermione doesn't know much about nineteen-year-old Riddle – much like the whole of his life, it was a blurry. She knew he worked for Borgin and Burke, against the speculation of many who thought he'd start a promising Ministry career. She knows he's destined to kill Hepzibah Smith, then disappear, not to resurface again in the 1960s.

Aside from that, she knows positively nothing about this younger version of the Dark Lord. Except, of course, that he's already killed his father, grandparents, and that miserable Moaning Myrtle.

So when she finds him lurking about the aisle right before she's supposed to be closing down the shop – by herself, mind, with no other witnesses around – Hermione is understandably anxious. Not that she lets him know that.

He's browsing the Dark Arts section – no surprise there, though it was a bit of a surprise to her that Flourish and Blotts even had such a section, in her day it had been eradicated. Hermione approaches lightly.

"I think you would find this quite interesting." His back is still to her. He closes the book with a snap, waving it out to her. Hermione snatches it, moving to reshelf the tome. Tom steps back to watch her. She reads the sanguine cover, fingers brushing over the gold lettering. _Secrets of the Darkest Art: Runes and Transfiguration Not for the Faint of Heart._ She nearly drops it.

"No, thank you. I can't read runes, anyways," she lies. The trick is to appear ordinary. Bland and ordinary. Then, maybe then he might not spend so much time pestering her.

He shrugs, leaning against one of the cases. "Doesn't mean you can't learn. I'm surprised you don't already, an accomplished young witch such as yourself." The words are said like a compliment, but Hermione feels the slight.

"Whoever said I was accomplished?" she scoffs, finding the book's spot on the shelf.

"No one needed to say anything, I can tell."

"I'm closing the shop, you need to go."

Riddle purses his lips. "Ah, have I kept you late? You must be famished."

Hermione begins moving towards the till, shaking her head. "I'm perfectly fine, thanks."

"No, you must be hungry," he insists. "And it's my fault, keeping you past your shift. Let me buy you dinner."

She freezes in the midst of locking the register. "Oh…oh, no, I couldn't let you do that, Mr. Riddle."

He's suddenly behind her – how did he get behind the counter – breathing on her neck. Hermione jumps, spinning to face him. Tom Riddle is close – very close, too close, unbearably close. She backs away, spine pressing into the register.

"It's Tom," he says, friendly. "And I insist, Beatrice, please."

"No, thank you," she replies, wiggling out from between the deranged psychopath and the counter. Starting towards the door, she summons her purse and coat. Tom follows, talking all the while.

"Why not? It's just dinner."

"I'm not interested," she murmurs. They're outside now, and she's tapping the door, muttering incantations to lock the shop down for the evening. "That's all."

His hand is on her wrist. The fingers are caressing her pulse point. "But Beatrice –"

She doesn't let him finish. Instead, she apparates to her apartment, terrified. Before she's gone, however, Hermione catches a glimpse of his expression. It's one of fury.

**-XXX-**


	3. Chapter 3

**XXX-**

Over the weekend, Hermione takes some time to think about her Tom Riddle predicament. He really hasn't proven to be the insane freak she'd assumed he'd be. A bit intimidating, yes. Unable to comprehend social norms, certainly. But murderous?

Hermione decides that she's perhaps been a little too harsh. Constantly challenging him wasn't going to be healthy for her in the long run. She needs to end this. Now. He can't have this fixation upon her. That fixation alone could alter time.

Stroking Oxyn thoughtfully over an untouched glass of wine, Hermione plans what she wants to say and how she's going to say it. Of course, it doesn't go as planned. These things have a tendency not to.

It's early afternoon when she finds herself in Borgin and Burke's. She still feels utterly creeped out by the shop, and it takes a bit of steeling herself to even enter, but Hermione manages it. The withered Burke stands behind the counter. He eyes her, but issues no greeting. His features are like melted wax, sallow. She's vaguely reminded of Snape.

"Is Tom in?" she begins hesitantly.

Burke's brows rise. "What would you want with our Thomas?"

"I – I've brought him lunch." She holds up a bag. "Please, if he's not here, may I just leave it –"

"Yes, yes," Burke says, waving his hand. "I'll make sure he gets it. Anything else?"

"No, thank you!"

When she's gone, he examines the bag's contents. Once he's determined there's nothing suspicious, he consumes two of the three chocolates and reads the note folded at the bottom of the bag.

_Tom –_

_I'm sorry I was so standoffish the other night. Please know it is nothing personal. I do appreciate the offer, however, I simply cannot. I think, in fact, that it is best that we keep our distance. Take this peace offering, either way, as a gesture of thanks for saving my a few weeks ago._

_Best wishes,_

_Beatrice_

Burke thinks the girl is a fool and tells his shopboy as much when he arrives with new purchases from the MacMillian estate. Tom smiles thinly when he reads the note. Burke asks why the young woman turned him down and Tom shrugs.

"She won't again," the young man assures the elder wizard.

**-XXX-**

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_"….I cannot say why my encounters with Mr. Riddle are so risky and unsettling. Only that knowing he is so close to me – has an interested in me – isn't right. If he continues with this preoccupation, there is a chance history may be permanent, dangerously altered._

_Truth be told, there is not much you or the Ministry could do. I really just wanted this to be on the record. I'm doing everything within my power to keep my distance. The trouble is, he's very much working against me…."_

_Ever yours,_

_Hermione_

**-XXX-**

"Beatrice – that's Shakespeare, right? _As You Like It?"_

"No," she says through gritted teeth. " _Much Ado About Nothing."_

"Right." He flashes her a falsely apologetic smile.

Something about this slip of a girl has entranced him. Though she appears to be a dull, stressed creature, she is all but dull. Her wit is whip-sharp, cracking, really. She dares to speak to him in a way no one has. Well, at least, no one has dared to do more than once.

They're come across each other a handful of times now, proving that the world really is a small place. Or perhaps it simply feels like a small place when two people of similar interests inhabit the same areas repeatedly.

He's never met a girl who likes books the way Beatrice does. He's seen her at Flourish and Blott's, watched the way her hands caress the rich leather covers, seen her fingers dance along gold-dusted spines. She's intoxicated with affection for them, possesses a foreign and admirable respect for each tome she crosses, even those she finds distasteful.

Maybe it's the fact that she's run away so many times or maybe it's because he's bored and she looks like intriguing entertainment with her mysterious lack of a backstory. Whatever it is, Tom Riddle's interest has been caught. He has no intention of releasing it anytime soon.

**-XXX-**

"You again?" She's incredulous. Tom does a double take, smiling when he realizes who, exactly, he's come across in this nook of Diagon Alley.

"Beatrice, a pleasure to see you." His voice is cool. Clearly, he's still angry with her. "What brings you here?"

"Cat food," she says awkwardly. "For my cat."

His lips twitch. "Well, I am certainly glad it isn't for your hippogriff."

She ignores the tease. "And you?"

"I'm just getting a few mice."

"For pets?" Curiously, she peers into the cardboard box he's holding.

Tom smirks. "So you could say. My snake requires rodents."

"Snake?" Hermione shakes her head. "How…unusual."

"Yes," the wizard agrees. He pauses. "Would you care to join me for a drink?"

"Now?"

"No, in 1958. Yes, now."

She considers, weighing her options. He's bound to keep asking if she doesn't say yes at some point. Maybe if she goes along with him once he'll see that she's no one of particular interest. At worst, she can say she's well and truly found him not to be her type. Then he'll practically have to leave her alone.

 _"That at least sounds good in theory," s_ he thinks to herself wryly. _"Though I've no doubt in action things will turn out quite differently."_

"Very well," she says. "One drink. At the Leaky Cauldron, then?"

His smile is wide, and in her eyes, dangerous.

He sends the mice to his flat, and offers to do the same with her cat food, but Hermione keeps it on her. It would serve as a good excuse for leaving should things become more even uncomfortable.

Tom leads her up to the bar, ordering two butterbeers. She's thankful it is not Firewhisky, which she has a hearty aversion to, after an evening spent drinking it gave her dreadful dreams. Tom offers her a cheers, which she returns, and they drink up. She feels his eyes upon her as she scans the room, searching for familiar faces. There aren't many, which is of little surprise.

She's not made a point of meeting many new people. Friends means lives affected which means history potentially being altered, which could mean any number of things. So, when Hermione wishes for companionship she takes herself out for dinner and watches the other patrons of the restaurant. In both Diagon Alley and muggle London she's found an abundant number of interesting people. Crazy old folk and eccentric young ones. It's quite interesting to her, as she's always been keen on history. Post-war London is particularly interesting – still shaken, the city is rebuilding at a thoughtful rate, proving how the wet little island held a great deal of fortitude.

"What are you thinking of, Beatrice?"

His voice shakes her from her reverie. Hermione lifts her mug to her mouth, taking a long drink before answering. His eyes are on hers, amused and liquid.

"Oh, who knows?" she answers airily. "I often don't."

He laughs – well and truly. It's a startling sound. "I do not believe that for a moment, Miss Garner."

"Well, then, what do you suspect me of thinking about?" She leans in, fingertip tracing the rim of her mug.

"However would I know?" The young man leans in closer as well. "Hmmm. Have you been thinking of…cats?" He eyes the bag at the feet of her barstool.

Hermione shakes her head.

"Books?"

"I am nearly always thinking of books, but no."

"Me?" he tries again.

She nearly laughs, but instead flashes him a smile.

"Very well then….time travel?"

Her smile fades. He's not hit the mark, not quite, but it's a little too close for comfort, regardless. Tom watches her face, gaze calculating. He quickly notes her discomfort.

"Time travel, then? My, you've held that interest for quite some time," he muses. "Whatever is it about time travel that has caught your interest?"

Hermione shrugs, taking another sip of her butterbeer. "It's simply intriguing," she says, trying to sound nonchalant.

"You know, I know of some books on the matter that you may find interesting, if you've not read them already."

She is surprised. He's offering help? Why is he not questioning her further? But she recognizes that keen glint in his eyes – it's familiar because it is one she often possesses herself when she's on the hunt for some obscure or complex piece of information. Hermione smoothed her skirt before answering.

"What kinds of books?" she asks, leaning forward again. His eyes skirt the neckline of her blouse before meeting her eyes. She glares. Tom just smiles.

He promises to send her the list later in the week, on the condition that she'll meet him for another drink. Reluctantly, she agrees. His eye gleam dangerously when she says yes. Dread rises in her throat, which is only aggravated when he kisses her hand to bid her goodnight.

**-XXX-**

When five days have passed and she still has not received his letter, Hermione grows suspicious. She's ventured down Knockturn enough times now to feel markedly more at ease, though the same cannot be said of Borgin and Burke's. Burke actually greets her this time with a grunt. Hands crossed behind her back, she politely inquires after Tom. She is informed that he's been out for the last four days, forcibly after he'd nearly collapsed in the middle of a delivery.

"I am sure, however, that he would be ever so pleased to see you, Miss Garner," the old wizard suggests slyly. Without any prompting, he slides a scrap of paper with an address across the marble countertop towards her. Eyes narrow, Hermione picks up the paper.

It takes her two hours to make up her mind to visit him. Her guilt pushes her to bring him some soup (from the Leaky Cauldron), knowing that like is incredibly likely that no one has visited him since he was struck ill. Her kinder nature won't allow her to ignore him. So, with trepidation she climbs the rickety stairs up to Riddles fourth-floor attic room. Her knock goes unanswered, so she magically unlocks the door – there are no other security enchantments – and slips inside.

Immaculate. That's how she would describe his flat. Painfully neat, not a speck of dust nor a book out of place. She creeps in, peering around nervously. It's smaller than her flat, and certainly shabbier. The wallpaper is drooping sadly near the ceiling. The floor is scuffed, and the fireplace has a sad, dirty look about it that clearly can't be helped. A worn velvet sofa sits directly parallel to the fire. And upon it lies a miserable looking Tom Riddle.

Nearing, she notes his pallid skin, the deep grey bruise-like circles beneath his eyes, and the slight sheen of sweat on his brow. _"He is far sicker than I thought he would be."_ He shivers slightly she reaches out to shakes his shoulder gently. Glazed eyes flicker open slowly. He opens his mouth to breath her name hoarsely.

"Hush," she scolds. "Your boss told me you were alone here wasting away. I came to make sure you're still breathing and to bring you some soup."

Tom blinks. "Wha –"

"Do you have any bowls?" she asks briskly. He lifts a heavily limb to point towards the kitchen. She rises, deciding she'd rather do a bit of poking around rather than simply summoning the bowl. It's a rather ordinary kitchen, however, nothing particularly special or interesting. She finds no traces of murder or dark magic. It is merely a kitchen. Just like hers.

She returns with a warm bowl of soup, helping him sit up before offering it forth. He winces as he shifts upwards.

"Thank you," he says after a few bites. "Why…" Tom hesitates. "Why are you here?"

"You never wrote. It didn't seem like you. I tried to reach you at Borgin and Burkes, which lead me here."

"Almost against your will," he says wryly before launching into an attack of coughs. Hermione fetches him a glass of water. Once his throat has been calmed, Tom speaks again. "You felt guilty."

"Do I?" Hermione scoffs. "I think you're mistaking the desire to be a descent human being with feeling indebted or something. Let me assure you – it was nothing more than concern that any normal person would have for an acquaintance."

He _tsks._ "Here I thought we were friends, Beatrice. But I don't think so – none of my other acquaintances have stopped by to inquire after my health."

Jaw tightening, Hermione restrains her eyes rolling.

She ends up staying the afternoon, entertaining him by reading from a few history books and the _Daily Prophet._ This is a preferred occupation, as it allows her to avoid his too-keen eyes. Tom is relatively quiet for the rest of her visit. Before Hermione exits the flat she leaves him with a cup of tea and a promise to return again tomorrow.

**-XXX-**

The next day she brings more soup and some bread. She makes more tea, and this time, she actually talks to him.

"Why ever didn't you call a friend or someone to help you?" she asks while stirring sugar into his tea – three spoonfuls, positively disgustingly sacrine. "Surely someone could have brought you medicine or a healer."

"I've got no friends," he murmurs.

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. "No lackeys, either?"

Tom laughs – a sound that quickly turns into a hacking cough. Hermione pushes him back onto the sofa, then hands him the teacup. It's chipped around the rim.

"No, no lackeys. No friends, no lackeys, no hired help."

The witch grows quiet, leading Tom to observe her in earnest. He doesn't understand why she's being so…so….

"What?" he asks finally.

"It's just…sad," she says finally.

Tom sneers. "Don't pity me."

"I'm not!" Hermione cries, recoiling at his expression. "I promise you! But it is terribly sad to have no friends, no anyone."

He holds her chocolate colored eyes in his own for nearly a minute before releasing her, realizing that perhaps Beatrice herself felt this sadness that she mentioned, even if he didn't himself. Oh, but it would make sense – she's always alone when he sees her. Never in the company of friends or family or really even her co-workers. Beatrice is a witch set apart from others. Not so different from him.

"Why did you come?"

"You asked me that yesterday."

He waits. Hermione sighs.

"I assumed no one would come to look after you. And I thought about how I might feel if I didn't have anyone to care for me when I fell ill."

Tapping his fingers against the saucer, Tom makes it clear that he still does not quite believe her. But Hermione shan't indulge his suspicious mind anymore. She pulls out a new novel, flipping to the first, fresh white page.

**-XXX-**

As soon as he is well again, Beatrice promptly disappears from his life.

For almost a week she's at his flat everyday. At first she will only sit on the scuffed, rickety chair, perched as though ready to fly from the room at any moment. Eventually, her managed to coax her onto the couch, where she sits beside him or at his feet, working very hard to avoid his eyes. It is a though she believe he will read her thoughts by merely looking at her.

Which is not preposterous. He's been learning Legilimency for almost a year now, with moderate success. But he's never even thought to direct his new, limited power upon Beatrice.

At some point within their week together, he touches her. It's nothing particularly special, really, but quite momentous to him. On their fifth afternoon together, he's managed to convince her to sit next to him again – though it is with nearly a whole two feet between them – she'd been reading poetry. The muggle poet Keats. He doesn't ask how she, an upstanding witch, knows and favors such a writer. He's never asked her anything about her life. She falls asleep halfway through a poem about sad knights. Falls asleep and ends up leaning against him, head finding a perfect place on the crook of his shoulder.

He claims her hand, tracing all the lines, the creases, examining the curve of her nails. It's a curious thing, touching another human being so intimately. To feel the pulse of blood, soft hair that billows like a cloud, smell of sweet lotions. Tom Riddle isn't familiar with the smooth skin of another person. He nearly forgets. The experience leaves his quite struck.

Before she wakes he lets go. But he does not push her away. She must deal with the embarrassment of finding herself sleeping on him. Flustered, she blushes deeply.

She leaves the day he admits to feeling better and does not return. He does not see her for nearly three weeks, even when he's searching for her casually upon the streets of London. Tom is driven to suspect that she has cast some kind of an anti-finder spell upon herself.

He's eventually forced to frequent Flourish and Blotts until he finds her in the middle of one of her shifts, reshelfing the charms section. She looks messy, with a few wings of dusky brown hair falling in her face and a wrinkled blouse. Tom watches her for several minutes before interrupting her work. A punishment feels in order, so he sneaks down the row with great lightness of foot to caress her exposed neck.

Beatrice jumps at his touch, rising swiftly to face him. "What are you doing here?"

"I've not seen you in three weeks," he says flatly.  
Beatrice scoffs. "Is that a crime now?" she asks coolly. "Going a few days without seeing you?"

Her tone draws a thin thread of anger up in him. Tom's eyes flash. "Yes," he grounds out.

And that's that.

**-XXX-**


	4. Chapter 4

**-XXX-**

To her great and every-lasting surprise, Hermione thoroughly enjoys Tom Riddle's company. Well, to the extent of discussions and the occasional debate over tea. But within those non-voluntary hours she spends with him, over the dozens of topics they cover, she finds that she honestly _enjoys_ the psychotic homicidal maniac. His eyes do not glaze over when she starts on house-elf rights (though he does get quite the chuckle out of Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, all too quickly catching onto the acryonym). He instead rises to the debate heartily.

It's quite a change from what she is used to. Even Percy, her most loyal conversation partner, would sometimes seem to doze off during discussions of non-human rights – though, to be fair, she was hardly better when it came to the regulation of cauldron-bottoms.

"You can't curse another living creature just for sake of another!" she protested during one of their more heated debates. The features column of the _Prophet_ that day included an article on the issue of dragon-pox. Apparently, some (fools, in Hermione's mind) thought that dragons held the key to the cure and were all for slaying or at the very least capturing a few hundred to find some kind of antidote.

"But if that living creature's life isn't the same value as your own," Tom explained patiently. "Then why should it not be fair?"

"Who is to say what lives have value and what lives do not?" she cried. "That's an awfully black-and-white way of looking at the world, Tom."

His eyes possessed a steely glint. "It's a realistic way."

"Oh, hardly."

"No, no," he argued. "It's only true. Some lives are worth more than others. Wizards above non-magical and non-human beings. It's like how men are superior to cows. The falcon to the mouse."

"Being prey does not mean the life of the prey holds no value," she replied. "For how would a predator survive without the prey? Every life holds equal weight. Besides, you speak of these creatures as though they are prey. As though muggles are prey. Surely you don't believe that, Tom?"

He never gives her a straight answer, but it doesn't matter. Hermione knows precisely what Tom Riddle believes when it comes to the value of life.

**-XXX-**

Hermione does not know how, exactly, he has become a fixture in her life. But in just a few short weeks, Tom Riddle is a regular installation in Beatrice Garner's day-to-day activities. And she feels as though it is not quite within her will.

But there have been no threats. No bribery, no bullying, nothing of that nature at al. He simply insisted on being inserted into her reluctant existence in this decade, and she is at a loss on how to get rid of him.

He picks her up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from the shop to have a drink at the Leaky Cauldron. On Tuesday and Thursday she meets him at the crossroads between Knockturn and Diagon so they can walk along the streets of muggle London, exploring the older parts of the city. And on weekends, Hermione might find him in her threshold with a new book or – far more likely – nothing more than a smirk.

Of their odd, not-quite-friends relationship, Hermione doesn't know what to think. Part of her terrified to mess up the timeline. Another part is equally terrified of him, this younger version of Lord Voldemort. And another part is thankful to have the company. She had no idea of how lonely she'd been until Tom came into her life, filling what were once quite hours with arguments and lectures and thoughtful conversation.

For the moment, she can do little more than accept it. She has tried ignoring him, tried keeping a careful distance, then a not-so-careful distance, but Tom Riddle is having none of that. For whatever reason, he seeks to know her and to keep her near.

 _"Do not share anything more than necessary,"_ Dumbledore's letters advise. _"And as soon as you have an opportunity, make your distance."_

She's trying. Really.

**-XXX-**

Sometimes, her mind is a million miles away.

He can tell when she gets that glazed look about her eyes. Her mouth goes soft with longing. Any person could see that Beatrice Garner is out of this realm, out of this life. Her thoughts are some place beyond the horizon that he can see.

Tom hates it. He hates not knowing all of the corners of her mind. He hates not being able to follow.

If he dared, he'd use Legilimency on her. He's gotten better over the last four months. But no – he doesn't dare. It's _Beatrice._ The mere notion of performing such a spell on her is enough to turn his stomach.

**-XXX-**

The spring is a wet one, full of many sporadic downpours. Hermione is often forced to bring her umbrella to work, as she much prefers to walk rather than apparate. If she forgets, she has to find an awning to hide beneath until she can cast an water-repelling charm or transfigure herself an umbrella.

He teases her about her overly-cautious nature and will go to great lengths to hide her umbrella whenever he visits her at work. Hermione loathes these games, and tells him as much. Tom doesn't see to care.

It is during one of these storms that she accidently brings Tom Riddle to her flat, her last safe haven. As soon as she realizes what has been done, Hermione wants to hit herself.

A heavy afternoon storm crashes down upon London at approximately four in the afternoon, when Hermione's shift at the store is up. She's greeted at the door by a rain-drenched Tom. Beads of water collect on his skin like diamonds, glittering in the dim light outside of the shop. His perfectly styled hair is flat against his head, several locks glued to his forehead. Hermione pushes this back with the heel of her palm.

Touching him has grown easier. Tom encourages it, to her surprise. He likes feeling her skin against his. Often times he randomly reaches out to feel the back of her hand lightly. As though to remind himself that she's corporal. Present. With him.

Out of Flourish and Blott's, Hermione opens her umbrella. "Where are we going?

They start moving away from the shop. Tom opens his mouth, offering a suggestion, but is interrupted by a gust of wind that tears Hermione's umbrella forward, whipping it out of shape. She cries loudly, reaching for her wand. Tom takes the lead, tugging her towards another covered shop front.

"Let's just go back to the flat," he suggests. "We won't have much of a evening with the way the weather is tonight. Let's just go indoors and wait this out."

With a sighs, she agrees. Closing her eyes, Hermione takes his arm and apparates them –

\- straight into her parlor.

_"Damn."_

Interested, Tom peers around the room. "Well, this wasn't exactly what I imagined. But I am pleased, nonetheless."

Dropping her arm, he moves though the room, heading towards the mantle, looking at her possessions. Hermione, frozen, is internally cursing herself. _"You idiot! He said_ the flat _, not your flat. You had no obligation to bring him here! Now he knows where you live!"_

A soft meow distracts her from the internal berating. Nyx is winding her way between her mistress's legs. Hermione stoops to pick up the feline, shushing it as she strokes the length of the cat. Tom approaches, reaching out. He politely offers Nyx his hand. After a period of sniffing she decides that he may pet her.

"This was not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

He tilts his head. "More books."

She can't help but laugh.

**-XXX-**

"Who was that?" she asks vaguely.

A person had come to his door. It was only about eight o'clock, but still the visitor was mysterious in the way they pulled up the hood of their cloak and spoke in a near-whisper. Tom met them at the threshold. They were not invited in. Business was conducted over the course of three minutes in hush tones while Hermione remained in the kitchen, nudging a blackened something-or-other beefsteak in the frying pan. She cannot hear them over the sizzle, and wishes for a pair of Extendable Ears. There is a pair somewhere in the depths of her beaded bag, but that's over a mile away. It's no use summoning them.

When Tom steps away from the door he does so quietly, taking his time in coming back to the kitchen.

"Oh," he replies shortly. "No one. Just a business associate."

"I didn't know shopboys had business associates."

He meets her eyes levelly. "Shows what you know," Tom says coolly. There is a pause. "Let me do that, you're useless in a kitchen."

"No, I've got it," she whispers. It takes a good deal of control for her to steady her quivering wrists.

**-XXX-**

"A surprise," he says. "Dress for walking."

Wary, Hermione wears a comfortable skirt and cardigan, packing a hat (one thing she likes about this era is its acceptance of hats) and her beaded purse. He meets her at her flat and apparates them, demanding that she close her eyes and keep them closed until he directs otherwise. She giggles nervous, hoping to hide her true anxiety. She wants to bite her lip and protest, but it is not to be. Tom would not receive it well.

"Open," he commands only a few moments after her feet are steady upon solid ground.

Hermione lets her eyelids flutter open, gasping to take in the dramatic landscape. They're in a sparkling green wood that has only been just touched by rain. A small brook flows a little ways away, and at the base of the tree they have landed in front of a fine picnic is laid. The gingham blanket is spread with fine china and crystal (likely transfigured), a bowl of grapes and strawberries, cheese, bread, among other things.

She stares, mouth agape. Tom nudges her, smiling. "I thought we might go out for the afternoon."

"Oh, Tom."

He leans in to kiss her cheek. "Do you like it?" he whispers.

"Yes." Hermione touches her cheek where he kissed her, surprised again. "Tom, when –"

"Come!" he pulls her towards the blanket, plopping down and patting the spot beside him. She sinks to her knees, folding her skirts beneath her.

They eat and talk for over an hour. Once finished, Tom sends everything back into the basket, then leans against the tree trunk, bidding her to sit with him. She does, and her head somehow finds its way to his shoulder. With a sigh, she closes her eyes.

"This was utterly lovely, Tom. And a massive surprise."

The wizard leans towards her, head against hers. "I'm pleased you've enjoyed yourself."

"You have been so…." She searches for a word. "Sweet."

He chuckles. "I do not believe any person has ever used that adjective upon me before."

"I find that hard to believe."

**-XXX-**

Thoughts of Harry and Ron and life in 2000 resurface on bad days. She's been here nearly seven months. By no means has Hermione given up – but sometimes, she almost forgets that this is not where she belongs.

In those moments when she is taken by thoughts of the future-past, she's simply gone. Wistful, she might withdraw from them after a few minutes or an hour, depending on how sad she wishes to feel, and then go about the rest of her day on heavy limbs.

Tom notices. Of course he notices. And he cannot stand it. He will never ask what it is that haunts her so frequently and with so much strength, but it is all too easy to derive that he wants badly to know. In those moments that she is far away, he often reaches for her, attempts to pull her back to the present, back to him.

Never once is she tempted to tell him.

She's still searching for a way back. If it's not the book she's currently reading, then maybe it will be the next one. Or the one after that. One day, one of the books will have a spell or a rune or a potion that will send her home. She's sure of it.


	5. Chapter 5

**-XXX-**

Beatrice doesn't come to Borgin and Burke's very often. Less than he would like, really. It's clear the shop makes her quite uncomfortable. She inches around every steap as though terrified to touch anything for feat that it might murder her then and there. While it is true there are a number of deadly artifacts about the showroom, Beatrice acts like a single speck of dust from within the store could easily kill her.

Nothing, however, bothers her as much as the Regency-era music box. It sits on a velvet cushion near the front of the shop, up by the register. It's rather unimposing, really. Just a silver box with a curious crest on the front. He's looked it up before for Borgin, but couldn't find any match or family name. But that's not what is striking about the little box. What strikes him is Beatrice's great fear of it. She never gets closer than a few suspicious feet.

But it's simply a music box. One of the few uncursed, relatively unmagical items in the shop. Harmless.

Not, apparently, to Beatrice.

They generally share a "don't-ask-don't-tell" arrangement. He breaks this unspoken agreement one afternoon as he catches her eyeing the silver box with crossed arms. He's gone to the back room to fetch cloak, returning to find her glaring and murmuring angrily at an inanimate object. Pausing at the counter, Tom watches.

"What is it?"

Beatrice jumps, nearly knocking into the stuffed alligator. Once she has righted herself, she turns to him.

"Nothing. I simply don't like the box, that's all."

His brows rise. "Why? It's merely a box. Far less dangerous than most items in here," he says, gesturing to the show room.

"I – I don't know." She falters. "I just don't. It feels dark, Tom." Shivering, the witch rubs her arms.

Tom joins her on the other side of the counter, wrapping his arms around his witch and kissing her brow. She stiffens, as she always does. He knows he is taking a great liberty, kissing her in any manner. Feeling Beatrice freeze up always gives him a strange little wave of pleasure. "Come on. There's a pair of stools waiting for us at the Leaky Cauldron."

Beatrice leans away him with a sigh and allows herself to lead from the shop.

**-XXX-**

Neither remembers exactly how it happened. Granted, their relationship has always been unorthodox – a strange combination of hostile with interest with annoyance with attraction. Not what a person would normally call a grounds for romance. And yet….

Perhaps they both simply woke up one day knowing their connection had made the shift. Or maybe Tom made the first move and Beatrice simply followed. In their minds, it is quite fuzzy. It may have happened over the course of a month, or even the course of a day. Sometime around September, Hermione feels no hesitation in kissing him freely. By then it feels natural. Just like breathing.

It terrifies her.

**-XXX-**

Over a year after her arrival, she finds it.

She arrived in mid-January, and in late February, uncovers a peculiar text in one hidden corner of the library. Dusty, the tome have clearly has not been touched in neigh five years, if not longer. This does not surprise her – while the London Library of Magic is quite popular among the academics and bookworms such as herself, it is a very expansive collection. Those more obscure titles are often go overlooked in such a vast compilation.

 _The Spiral of Era: A Study of Time_ proves to be a very theoretical read. At times, even Hermoine Granger struggles with the dense text. But eventually, her reading yields – after working through a great deal of work in arithmancy and a dash of runes – a formula for a spell that should, if it works properly, will work as a porkey when placed upon an inanimate object.

Which would suggest, if the music box works the same way that her spell should, that some unknown person cast the spell upon the damn box to send someone – possibly herself – to 1946.

This lead her to a question Hermione has been ignoring for quite some time – who arranged for the music box to be spell to send her back to 1946, a relatively insignificant year in wizarding history, and most importantly, why?

In the library, alone at her usual third floor window-side armchair, Hermione squints at her notebook, the feathery end of her quill pen tapping against her nose, wrist stained with smudges of black ink. She won't really know if the spell will work until she actually does it – a terrifying reality. But, what is even more terrifying to realize is that she's reluctant to use the spell – reluctant to go.

Hermione closes her eyes, breathing deeply, absorbing this revelation. When did she suddenly feel comfortable enough to stay in the 1940s? _"What a ridiculous notion,"_ she scolds. _"You belong in your own time."_

 _"But maybe you don't want to be in your own time,"_ a sneaky little voice in the back of her mind suggests.

After nearly an hour of silent deliberation, she decides that she will wait for Tom's scheduled departure to Eastern Europe in the coming spring. He should, theoretically, leave London after stealing the locket from Ms. Smith. After that, he'll be gone and she'll be alone again, free to leave.

 _"Staying is easier,"_ she tells herself. _"If I leave now, who knows what kind of impact I'll have upon history. Better to stay and let things run their course."_

Unless by staying she's altering things horrendously. Hermione doesn't wish to think about it too deeply, which is quite a rarity for her. 1947 has certainly changed many characteristics of the witch.

_"I need to get out…."_

**-XXX-**

In all honesty, he didn't _intend_ on reading her correspondence. That was never part of any scheme of his. But the opportunity was there, plump and ripe. He could not resist. Especially consider as of late their relationship has felt far too…equal for his taste. Tom Riddle does not conduct relationships in such a manner. He is the only one on equal footing. For everyone else, it must be a balancing act.

And, to be fair, she did send her owl out just before the break of a massive rainstorm. The poor creature was found outside of her kitchen window, tapping on the glass with a talon, soaked. How fortunate that Tom should have apparated in during his lunch hour to surprise Beatrice. She'd been called to the shop, judging by the look of the abandoned flat. So, as any good beau would do, he let her owl in.

The bird dove into the warmth like a snake upon a mouse. It unfurled damp feathers, leaving the furniture sparkling with raindrops. Then, after righting itself, the barn owl offers forth its foot. With a sigh, Tom removed the letter. It is only a little damp, but damn enough that the ink should run slightly. He blots at it with a dish towel, reading the address while doing so.

_Professor Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Eastern Tower, Scotland._

For a moment, Tom stares at Beatrice's neat, well-spaced script, attempting to process the implications of this letter. Beatrice, theoretically, should not know Albus Dumbledore – she did not attempt Hogwarts. Why ever would she be writing to that doddering old fool?

He considers her mysterious research. Perhaps that is why she wrote. Or maybe she is asking for a position – Hogwarts rarely hires assistant professors, but she could be asking for consideration. She is quite proficient at transfiguration. But no. None of those explanations seem to suit. Something niggles darkly in the back of his mind.

Given this, he is practically forced to read the letter.

With a few murmured words he seamlessly dries the parchment, opens the seal, unfolds it to begin reading. What he finds is altogether quite unexpected.

" _Dear Dumbledore,"_ it begins. _"I hope this letter finds you well. Our lunch last week was delightful and informative as ever…."_

He skims the useless small talk until finding something of interest.

_"I believe I have made a true break though on my issue of time. A very obscure text found at the Library was quite helpful in letting me work out a formula for a new spell. It took quite a bit of rune-study and arithmancy, but I believe I have found the answers I've sought for so long. The only trouble now is testing it out. I dare not send anyone besides myself (or perhaps a small mammal) to any point in time for fear of injury. Perhaps you can help me figure out a way to safely test the effects of this spell. I greatly look forward to hearing from you._

_Tom is doing well and appears to be unaware of my research's purpose. I know you do not trust him - and neither do I, honestly - but he's been rather helpful in suggesting books and brainstorming. I do not think I would have considered a few of the runes without his aid. Please do not think me too foolish for not seeking distance. I do not know how I might ever leave him now if I were to remain here._

_\- Hermione"_

If the recipient of the note surprised him, then he is positively floored by the note's contents. A new spell? For what? Time travel, the subject she's been so preoccupied with for this last year? To when does she wish to travel? And why? And runes – Beatrice swore almost on the day they met that she was useless with runes. This letter implies the opposite!

As for the name with which the letter was signed off, well, that is quite troubling. Has she lied to him? Or is she deceiving that old codger Dumbledore?

If she has succeeded in finding a way to travel backward or forward in time, what would that imply? Tom is struck with the thought that Beatrice – or Hermione, whatever she is calling herself – may be intending to leave, leap forwards or backwards to some other place, to another life.

He refolds and seals the letter. All evidence of his invasion must disappear before Beatrice returns. The rain has stopped and the owl is dry enough to give the delivery another go. He must coax the creature with a few treats before it will allow him to tie the letter back on its foot. After the bird sets off again, Tom stays by the window to watch the cream-colored bird skirt over the rooftops and chimney pipes, off into the misty, miserably grey afternoon sky, until it's just a spot in the distance.


	6. Chapter 6

**-XXX-**

The parchment is crumpled, half-ash by the time she finds in in the grate. Hermione has to push aside a few pieces of coal before she can reach it. It takes quite a bit of smoothing before she can make out the message.

" _Mr. Riddle –_

_We appreciate you consideration – application was well received – however, at this time we do not - please apply again in a few year's time – we shall try our best to install you then -_

_Yours,_

_Amo—"_

Most of it is quite illegible, but she can read just enough to discern the message. Riddle has applied to Hogwarts and has subsequently been denied.

Part of her is tempted to put the scrap back, but she instead leaves it on the table. He finds it when he returns from the market, picking it up with a barely-concealed quiver of rage. Across the room, Hermione watches, silent. When his gaze rises to meet her, it's tight, strained with frustration. He never intended for her to see this. She must know only of his success, not his failures.

"I'm sorry," she says simply.

No other remarks are exchanged, and they never speak of the matter again.

**-XXX-**

" _Dear Dumbledore,_

_I took your suggestion of using rats as test subjects and have successfully sent three forward five hours in the afternoon. All I had to do was calibrate the number of sweeping waves with the chanting, and write the date in runes. I cannot imagine the process of sending someone forward over fifty years. But it will be well-worth it, I am sure. There are still kinks to work out – two rat returned about fifteen minutes late, a severe calculation error, and all three were missing some fur upon their return. I will keep working on the formula. Eventually I'll get there._

_Shall we meet for lunch next Sunday? I just found the loveliest little sandwich shop on this residential street in muggle London…"_

She sits back, watching the shiny sheen of ink slowly fade to matte as she considers her next words. His last few letters had worried tones about them. He is fearful of her experiments. Nothing she says seems to persuade him that she is being perfectly safe. Well, mostly.

Reaching back to push away a few locks of hair, she touches the short locks towards the back. Wincing at the memory, Hermione resolves that she will get some grow-again potion before Monday. And if she must go out before then, well, she'll wear a hat.

**-XXX-**

It never before bothered him terribly that he did not know much about her life. Not much about her background, her education, her family, her friends. It was as if when Tom Riddle accepted Beatrice Garner into his life he took her in as a blank slate, uncaring of who or what had written on the stone previously. He was remarkably accepting.

Fortunately, this had thus far worked in her favor. Had he started asking questions, Hermione would likely be stumped on how to go about answering them. Despite being in the past for nearly a year, Tom is the closest person she has in her small, nay, minuscule circle of acquaintance-like people. And he has an uncanny knack for picking up on lies.

It just so happened that when he decided to become curious, he is _entirely_ curious, and bombards her with questions over one rainy afternoon's tea.

Curled by the fire, completely unsuspecting, Hermione was musing over a novel and vaguely enjoying having a full head of hair again when he starts. It is an innocent question.

"Why have we never met your parents?"

She doesn't bother glancing up. "Why have we never met yours?"

"Mine are dead," Tom replies sharply.

Hermione pauses midway through turning a page. "Right. Sorry." There is an awkward tinge about the air until she continues. "We've never met mine because they're in Canada, at the moment. They moved there shortly before the War. Between Grindlewald and Hitler…." She drifts off, hoping he'll take it as a painful subject.

But Tom isn't about to give up so easily. "They were up-to-date on the Muggle Wars, then?"

"Yes."

There is a beat.

"Why are you here, then, instead of in North America?"

"I was studying in France. When the War broke out they sent me to the UK to be taught by a private tutor under the guardianship of a maiden aunt." It's an elaborate lie – one he will surely see through.

Tom nods thoughtfully. "And where is she?"

"Dead."

"Hm."

A pause claims them for a few minutes before he strikes up another question. "But surely you have friends? I've never met anyone you're acquainted with outside of your work. Surely we would have some common people between us. The wizarding world is quite small."

Her nostrils flare. Hermione resolutely does not look up from the paragraph she is failing to read. "I've no idea why we know no one in common," she grinds out. "Perhaps it is our diverse interests…please, Tom, I am trying to read!"

"It's just a few questions. Tell me about them. I know you have friends. Their pictures are above your head right now."

He's right. The photograph of herself, Ron, and Harry from Bill and Fleur's wedding is just above her on the mantel. She'd been a little sentimental in putting the photo up there – not expecting, of course, that the Dark Lord would be frequenting her residence.

"Tom, I don't want to talk about it," she says hopelessly. "I'm in the middle of a very important –"

Setting his teacup upon the coffee table, he interrupts her gravely. "I realized yesterday I know nothing about your life before coming here, Beatrice. It does not seem right that I have so little understanding of you. Please. I only ask to know you better."

She sighs, closing her book. "I don't believe you the least bit," she tells him. "It's never that way with you."

Tom tilts his head innocently. "Beatrice, we've been together nearly six months now. I should only think it right –"

"Muggle-born," she says flatly. "Alright? I'm muggle-born. My parents were terrified of the wizarding community in conflict so they pulled me from school when Grindlewald started building up power, and I got a muggle and magical education here England."

For what feels like an age, all Tom can do is stare blankly straight at here. Not a muscle in his body moves. His face is utterly devoid of all feeling. His eyes are dull and blank, reminding her of a shark's. She is petrified.

Then, abruptly, he seems to launch himself across the room at her. With a squeak, Hermione is lifted from her chair, book clattering to the floor, tea sloshing as he lifts her up to give her a savage kiss. It's filled with longing and despair and frustration and cold, cold hate, but mostly – surprisingly – fear. Hermione struggles to overcome her stunned self before returning the kiss with as much fervor, wrapping her arms around his neck and twisting fingers in his perfectly styled waves.

When he pulls back, his eyes are alive again, sparkling with an emotion akin to rage, but far more tame.

"You're still bloody brilliant," he whispers breathlessly. "Beatrice, you're still…Oh, Merlin. Damnit all!"

Without another word, Tom swirls from the room, scooping up his cloak from the couch and slamming the door in one perfectly executed motion leaving Hermione alone, with swollen lips and a dizzy head.

**-XXX-**

The next day finds him on her threshold with a kiss and a new book on rare magical fungi of Wales. He doesn't refer to the previous afternoon, except once, saying that he'll overlook "any vice, any flaw, so long as she remain ever-his." It sounds corny and dangerous, heart-throbbing and threatening at the same time. Hermione is speechless. She just blinks at him as he pushes back stray, fussy locks back from her forehead.

Lips against her brow, Tom murmurs silently into her skin. The words are almost like prayers or mantras. She pointedly chooses not to ask.

**-XXX-**

It's April, and Tom is still in London.

It's April and Tom is still in London and Hepzibah Smith is still alive and everything is _wrong._

She's taken to reading the obituaries first in the _Daily Prophet_ now, pushing aside the weather reports and features to go straight to that middle page. There are never very many. Hepzibah's name has yet to appear. It's driving her positively mad. Tom always remarks on this peculiar interested in the obituaries section, and Hermione can only smile half-heartedly and say she's looking for acquaintances. He doesn't believe her, naturally, but lets the issue lie.

What's even more bothersome is all of the annoy indications that Tom has no intention of leaving London, at least not anytime soon. He even made the suggestion that they start looking into getting a flat together this summer. There's not even the slightest hint that he's planning on leaving the country for the next decade.

Its giving her ulcers to think that he might very well _not_ be leaving, because that would mean…that would mean….

She shakes her head. _"I don't want to think about it."_

But Hermione Granger has never been one to advocate not thinking. So she stares at the calendar, biting her lip worriedly until Tom summons her to the bedroom. When she doesn't move fast enough, he finds her before the calendar. Slipping an arm around her waist, he buries his face in the halo of her hair, inhaling.

"What are you looking at? Have you still not figured out its April?"

She leans into him, not answering.

"Beatrice?"

Hermione turns in the circle of his arms to kiss him, hands going to the nape of his neck. Tom returns the gesture, brow furrowed.

**-XXX-**


	7. Chapter 7

**-XXX-**

He takes her out to dinner to make the big announcement. In her heels and silk dress, Beatrice looks lovely and deliciously nervous. He spins her around the flat several times before apparating them to the restaurant. After being shown to their table, Beatrice sits on the edge of her seat, twisting her napkin in her lap. She suspects something.

 _"Probably something with more diamonds."_ He winces at the thought. The idea isn't a bad one by any means, but neither of them are ready for such a step. Beatrice is far too independent, he's got a heavy eye on his career – settling down is not an option. For now, anyways.

"Beatrice," he begins halfway through their soup. "I did something today –"

"That's a surprise," she quips.

He could curse her where she sits, but instead he forces a patient smile.

"—Something I think you'll be proud of. I quit Borgin and Burkes."

There is no smiling. No squeals of surprise and joy. In fact, there's hardly any reaction at all. Beatrice simply freezes, spoon halfway to her mouth. After a moment she collects herself enough to request a confirmation.

Yes. Yes, he did indeed submit his resignation with Borgain and Burke.

"But why, Tom?" she asks desperately. "You were doing so well there. They'd just given you a raise and commission and –"

"I quit because I've accepted a job at a new place, Beatrice." His eyes are practically glowing. "The Ministry. I got the owl today. I'm to start in Magical Law Enforcement."

"Oh, Tom," Beatrice whispers.

He can't contain himself any longer. Public displays of affection are not his style, but tonight he will make an exception In a second he's embracing her. The returning kiss is stiff initially – she's still surprised. Later, he finds it wet, mingled with her tears.

"I'm – I'm just so happy," she says when he asks.

**-XXX-**

Hermione is painfully conflicted. On one hand, Tom has selected new, less homicidal path. On the other, he's gone against how the timeline is supposed to go. He's disrupted time. Or, rather, she has by some how influencing him to reconsider his life option.

Part of her is very pleased that he is reaching a full, hopefully less evil potential. But another, bigger, more logical part is panicking.

She doesn't know what to expect. Before there had been a series of expectations. There was a timeline – she could follow it neatly, knew what to watch for. But now…now what was there?

On top of the new disparity in the timeline, Tom is generally giving her anxiety. Which, really, is nothing new. However, he's crossed a new line in questioning her about time travel. And it's giving her a nervous break down.

They've not discussed her project in several months when, on the way to Flourish and Blott's, he casually asked.

"What have you been doing with your time travel research?"

She freezes before the window of the second-hand robe shop, where she has been examining a bright purple velvet cloak, an atrocious article of clothing that mystifies her.

"Oh, you know," she says without looking up from the glass. "Just…researching. I don't really have a plan for it."

"Oh, don't you?" His tone is still friendly, but there is just a hint of an edge to it. So sharp you could effortlessly knick yourself if you stepped too close. "Nothing? That seems a waste, Beatrice."

"Well, it is only a pet project. Nothing serious."

He gives her a scathing look that Hermione very pointedly ignores. Still, he is undeterred, and for the next several weeks he purposely brings up the subject several more times. It's enough to give Hermione more than a few sleepless nights. Eventually she cannot stand his clear attempts at getting a rise.

"Why do you keep asking?" she grounds out one evening while they're walking up the stoop to his flat.

Surprised, Tom looks back down at her. "What?"

"Why do you insist on pestering me about my research? I'm interested in a topic and all of the sudden you've got some paranoia-suspicion thing going on?"

They're inside now. Tom sweeps off his coat, sending it to the closet before sinking elegantly into an armchair. Hermione stands with her hand on her hips, fuming in the entryway.

"What is the meaning of this, Hermione?"

"You're being…odd," she says slowly as she throws herself into the sofa, crossing her arms. "You are pushing this time travel thing like I'm hiding something. Which I'm not."

"Aren't you, Hermione?"

She opens her mouth, ready to argue, when what, precisely, he said strikes her.

_"Aren't you, Hermione?"_

Silently, she gasps, rising swiftly from the couch.

"What's wrong, Hermione?"

The young witch does not reply. Instead, she flees, flinging open the door and bolting down the stairs. She does not look back, but if she had, she might have seen Tom Riddle standing on the landing, watching her with flashing scarlet eyes.

**-XXX-**

As soon as she's back in the safety of her flat, Hermione wards the place off from apparition and scrying. He won't be able to get within nearly a block without her express permission. As soon as she's finished, she curls into her mattress with Nyx, taking an hour to cry then subsequently collect herself.

_"How can he know? How, how, how can he possibly know?"_

She must write Dumbledore. It is the only thing to do.

For about a quarter hour she stares at the blank tan parchment, trying to compose the words. When she has it, her quill scribbles furiously for only a few minutes.

_"I am aware that the spell is not perfect, but now is the time to go. This will likely be the last correspondence you receive from me. I plan on making an attempt tomorrow evening, at the height of the full moon. Please do not think me rash – I realized today that now is the time. I need to go. I have overstayed, and I fear for the repercussions. Leaving may not repair what I have done, but could still help, perhaps._

_Thank you for all of your wisdom and support. I shall not forget it, nor you Professor."_

There is nothing else to be said.

She owls Flourish and Blott's the next morning with the excuse of illness. There is no word from Tom – not an owl or an attempt to break her wards. It is a relief, in a way.

All day she rests and prepares. The spell will require a good deal of energy and focus to make it work adequately. Hermione only prays this time with this big of a leap through time, hair is the only things she comes back missing.

**-XXX-**

She sets up in the back yard. It's not a true yard, really, but a browning patch of grass boarder by three tall buildings and a broken down fence. Regardless it shall do the trick. She needs air and space. Should things go wrong, Hermione does not want either the flat or anyone within the vicinity to be injured. The yard is still not enough to give much protection, but it is better than staying indoors.

Most magic does not require the ceremony that this particular spell wants. She must write runes upon the grounds spelling out the dates, and then there are a series of chants and a specific way of moving her wand. Incredibly complicated, she wishes she'd had the forethought or time to brew Felix Felicis. She could use the luck.

When the moon is high and pearly in the sky, Hermione begins, placing the time porkey – a cobalt-colored teapot. Lowly, she chants. There is the bare minimum of wards upon this place for fear that the extra magic might mess up her attempt, so she must be quiet. Should anyone find her, Hermione must stun them. She doesn't _want_ to, really, but it is a necessity.

_"I only hope that no one should come."_

While she chants, her mind wanders to Harry, Ron, and home. For months she has pushed back her feelings of loneliness and longing towards her previous life. Tonight, they all flood back, so that the witch is half in tears as she recites the Latin phrases. Her sadness sweeps in, unmerciful as it reclaims the lost months.

It is so distracting that she completely misses the sound of a person approaching.

Tom steps lightly down the alleyway leading back to the yard. As Hermione's focus has been claimed by the time travel spell, her wards faltered, giving him the perfect opportunity to slip in. He'd been waiting just outside of them, at a nearby café, for most of the evening, having intercepted her letter to Dumbledore with a bribery of owl treats. The letter now lies crumpled upon his floor, abused in a rage.

With his wand at the ready, Tom waits at the corner of the building. Hermione's motions are quivering. She's tiring. In a few seconds his opportunity shall arise and he should conquer her, prevent her for going. Despite his immense anger, Tom Riddle has one focus on this night – stopping Hermione from accomplishing her attempt at leaving 1947.

When they both came to the understanding that she wasn't Beatrice Garner, that she had not been born of the 1920s and did not intend to stay within the 1940s, he had become livid. How _dare_ she even conceive of leaving him! What does she think she is doing? Hermione is one of _his._ She is _his._

He abruptly realizes that she isn't quivering – Hermione is vibrating! She is fading, and the runes about her are glowing dimly, brightening with each repeated citation. Tom's thoughts fly madly. _"Stop her."_

Lunging for the circle she has cast about herself, the young wizard stamps out the nearest rune. The vibrating stops. The glowing sharply quits. Hermione returns to a more corporal form with a bloodcurdling scream as though she is in terrible pain. Tom is at her side in only a moment, catching the witch before she tumbles to the ground.

Hermione beings shaking almost immediately, nearly seizing. Her skin is boiling. Teeth chattering, she struggles against him, wrenching her wrists from his grasp, writhing away. Stumbling on weak legs, she stands shakily to turn and vomit violently upon the grass in the nearest corner of the yard. Tom surges forward, intent on grabbing her up again. Hermione whips out her wand, sending him back with a poorly-aimed, yet strong stunner. Tom almost trips, hissing when another spell hits him like a slap.

"What the bloody hell?" she spits out. Flicking her wand, Tom is pushed back from her again.

"I should ask the same of you. What are you doing, _Hermione?"_

At the sound of her true name, the witch nearly snaps her wand in half. He takes the opportunity to rise and is before her in a flash, his own wand withdrawn. They are at an impasse.

Suddenly, Tom attempts a body-bind curse.

She deflects. _"Protego!"_

His brows rise. "You are an accomplished dualist. Yet another curiosity about you, Miss Hermione."

In response, she aims another stunner at him. Tom simply smirks. He has regained his footing fully. A silvery shield charm flies up without a single sound.

"You don't know what you're doing," Hermione says sharply. "You have no clue what you are meddling in, you great git!"

"I think I have surmised well enough for your letters to Dumbledore."

She grits her teeth. "Of course. Naturally you would think the invasion of another's privacy is perfectly acceptable."

"When one suspects their partner of some kind of sneakery, of course they might make that invasion of privacy."

"Do not make excuses for your pitiable behavior!"

"And yours? Lying? Pretending interest in me while fully intending to part from me?"

"You do not understand." Hermione is on the verge of fresh tears. "Tom, you have not the least wit as to what is going on, why I must go."

"I do not need to know why," he sneers. "Only that you intended to go." Without another word, Tom flung an unfamiliar spell upon her so quickly, Hermione does not have time to block it.

" _Nediscedereti!"_ he roars. The impact is brutal; Hermione sinks to her knees, then keels over. White hot magic course through her. The shaking returns, twice as worse as before. She feels like she has lost total control. It is powerful magic he directs towards her.

"Wha –" she gasps when he kneels at her side.

Pushing hair from her brow, Tom shushes her gently. "It's a modified anti-apparation spell. You're not the only one who has experiment with spell formulation. You see, with a few tweaks, I can restrict where you go. You cannot travel backward or forward in time except in the most natural of ways."

When she cries, he lifts her from the grass to hold her to him, cradling her head to his shoulder. Hermione is too ill to push him away.

**-XXX-**


	8. Chapter 8

**-XXX-  
** To use Legilimency upon Hermione feels like an act against himself. He does not enjoy violating her mind, especially in her weakened state. But he needs to know everything. There is no other way.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly before casting the spell upon her.

She just closes her eyes.

The memories that flash before him are informative. He sees her meeting him for the first time, spending afternoons in the Hogwarts library, tying a red-and-gold tie, Christmases and chess games –

But he is being blocked. There is something preventing him from seeing everything. Furious, he rams at it. Hermione squirms unhappily.

Finally, she allows a little of memory to slip through – just enough to give him what he's searching for. She lets him see meeting the younger Dumbledore, her terror of Tom Riddle, her work as an Auror-Unspeakable liaison. He watches her duel Death Eaters, explore number 12 Grimald Place, creep through Malfoy's hidden storeroom. The silver box automatically catches his eye.

He pulls out of her head, reeling.

"You didn't come here on purpose," he pants. "None of this – it was an accident. That box sent you here. Malfoy's box, correct? I could tell, the inbreed weasels, that one looked just like Abraxas. You were looking at the box and it sent you back and you've been trying to find a way back the entire time."

There is no answer. Still, he knows it to be true. Hermione came with no mission. Her only intention is to leave.

Months ago, he might have let her slip away, but now the idea is inconceivable.

"I'm not letting you go," he tells her the morning after her attempt. "Don't you see now I cannot?"

He is met with only silence.

**-XXX-**

"I have something I need you to do for me."

Abraxas's pale brows rise. "Anything you require, my lord," he agrees cautiously. When the Dark Lord asks one for any kind of "favor" one must always be cautious.

Tom removes a small silver box from his bag. Yesterday he'd temporarily nicked it from Borgin and Burke's, claiming he was taking it in for a proper polish. Instead he'd brought it back to his to make a few adjustments. It took a few tries, but he managed to spell the box with a variation of the kind of wards used upon wizarding locations as a way of keeping muggles way. His version keeps all people save Hermione from noticing the object. And only she may open it – and when she does, in whatever time she came from, she will be pull into 1946. He cannot specific where – he does not know where she specifically landed. That is a merely a detail. Either way, she will be sent to him.

The spell required Hermione's touch. He approached her the very evening he stole the box.

"I need you to place your hands upon this," he told her softly.

Hermione glanced at the music box, her eyes turning hard at the sight of the offending object. But she does as instructed without much hesitation.

Giving it to Abraxas, he orders him to hide the thing in his dungeon keep. The Malfoy heir accepts the music box with a curious expression.

"Why ever would you need me to hide this thing?"

Tom just smirks. "Trust me, it is important. Just keep it there until I need it."

"Right, my lord. Just as with the diary."

"Yes."

Malfoy clasps his hands, bows his head, and prepares to part from their table. He is stopped, however, when Tom calls him back.

"One more thing, Abraxas."

"Yes, my lord?"

"Don't tell any of the others of this."

**-XXX-**

It troubles him to no end that she refuses to speak. Since the night he stopped her leaving – nearly five days ago now – Hermione has been utterly silent. This week he took off work, claiming illness, so that he can stay with Hermione in her flat. Her upturned lips make it more than abundantly clear that she resents the babysitting.

"You need monitoring," he tells her, running his fingertips along the length of her arms. "I dare not leave you alone now, Hermione."

She simply shrugs her shoulders in reply, shrugging off his touch without a sound.

He catches her wrists instead, tightening his grip until she winces, holding her against his chest. Hermione refuses to struggle. Instead she goes a little limp, waiting for him to release her. And he always does after spending several long seconds staring into her chocolate-colored eyes.

Every morning she wakes late, drifting from her bedroom to the kitchen where she sets about making herself a cup of tea. After the tea, she settles on the couch to read until dinnertime, when he transfigures a table before her and works at forcing the consumption of at least a few bites. She does not fight him, but stares at her plate blankly, pushing around her fork. After she's eaten enough to suit him, Hermione stands and trails into her room, shutting the door, extinguishing the light. But she does not sleep. Several times a night Tom checks in on her. He always finds her awake.

Nothing he can do or say will tempt her from her silence. Hermione will not speak. Not for anything.

**-XXX-**

Not even the twinkling blue eyes of her old headmaster can cheer her. Hermione sits across from Dumbledore, stirring her soup absentmindedly as she listens to him recount a wonderfully amusing tale of a misspoken spell in his classroom that turned two students into goats. She laughs at the proper places, but it is a rather hollow sound.

Dumbledore naturally picks up on this. He delicately dances around the subject. "I do hope the last several weeks have been kind it you, Miss Garner. It does sound as though your experiments took a promising turn recently."

She smiles half-heartedly. "I thought they had, yes."

"But?"

"They were interrupted," she says flatly.

His brows rise. "How so?"

Hermione hesitates. Professor Dumbledore is politely, sipping his port, looking about the room. The idea of telling him the precise truth makes her uncomfortable. He is quite aware of her situation with Tom, their odd relationship. Of course, it makes the transfiguration professor quite uncomfortable. Hermione does not wish to worry him. She finally speaks, slowly, with great consideration.

"I wrote you, but I suppose the letter never came," she begins wearily. "He knows. He told me, last week. I was terrified of what Tom might do, so I was resolved to go – once and for all, back to where I belong. So I fled him and prepared. But I was found out. He stopped me."

"How?' Dumbledore asks sharply.

Eyes downcast, Hermione takes a breath. "He stopped me mid-spell."

"But surely you can try again?"

"Of course," she lies effortlessly. She swallows before going on. "Once I have the chance, I will certainly try again."

"Good, good." Dumbledore nods solemnly. "Should you need anything, Beatrice, let me know immediately. Safe haven, protection, support…should you require anything at all…"

She takes up his hand, squeezing. "Thank you, Professor. I shall keep that in mind."

Dumbledore smiles at her fondly and offers to pay the bill.

**-XXX-**

Her eyes are a little brighter than they'd been when she left. Tom watches her from the corner of eye. She opens the curtains, plumps the pillows, and walks on lighter limbs. He is inadvertently pleased to see her more at-ease, however, he is less pleased in knowing who gave her this comfort. _"Blasted old codger."_

Must Dumbledore have a finger in every pie? Particularly his, Tom's, pies?

Of course, he knew seeing Dumbledore would have some kind of effect on her. Oh, when she'd spoken finally after over a week of silence, he thought he would kiss her out of relief. But no, she simply wanted to inform him that she might go out for lunch with the batty old professor. He was a little sour that she had not asked any kind of permission, but he acquiesced. For the first time in days she dressed in something besides a nightgown and bathrobe. Tom watched her put up her hair, lingering in the threshold of her room. As ever, she avoids his eyes.

Upon her return, Tom ventures to speak with her properly.

"And how was Professor Dumbledore?"

"Quite well."

"And your lunch?"

"Nice."

"What did you talk about?"

"All manner of things."

He sighs. "How did he take the news of my interference?"

At this, she glances up sharply.

"I know of your relationship with him. How he has helped you this last year in trying to get back. I simply wish to know of his reaction when you told him." A pause. Hermione drops her gaze. "Oh. _Oh._ You did not tell him."

"I did not tell him _everything_ ," she corrects.

Tom is surprised. Pleasantly so. He moves to meet her in the kitchen, where she has been preparing herself a cup of tea. Hands rest on her waist, drawing her near. In his arms Hermione grows stiff. Tom does not relent, however, and holds her before him.

"Why?" he asks her. "Why not tell him everything?"

Hermione closes her eyes. "I did not want him to worry," she whispers. "He is already extremely wary to let me remain with you. If I told him you entirely prevented me from going, I have no doubt Professor Dumbledore would spirit me away."

His fingers brush her cheek. "No one shall spirit you anywhere, save me"

"Dumbledore could," she bites back fiercely. "If anyone might, he could."

"I would like to see him try," Tom replies before leaning into kiss her on the mouth, hard.

She fights him. Tom ignores her beating fists for a few seconds before catching them in his grasp. Without his hands on her form, Hermione wrenches away. Pulling back, she sees that Tom Riddle's eyes are a bright, brilliant red. The witch gasps. The color flashes, then fades.

"Tom," she cries. "You –"

"I won't let you go," he hisses. She tries to bolt, but his grip tightens. "You belong here, Hermione."

He kisses her again so that she does not argue.


	9. Chapter 9

**-XXX-**

Peace takes bit of time to reclaim them. It is tedious, at best. Before the year is up they are back of speaking terms. They are not quite as they were, but close. Hermione holds a good deal of resentment towards, him, naturally. She restrains the feelings most days, just as Tom acts like a normal beau on most days.

"I do not know what I would do without you," he says sometimes. It is a seemingly harmless remark of affection. Hermione always manages to catch a more ominous note. _"I shall not do without you."_

So she kisses him on the brow and squeezes his shoulder. Tom's eyes will always close. He, Lord Voldemorte, looks at peace during times like this.

They will likely never be steady. They will never be like other couples, sharing trust and confidences in one another. Perhaps, though, it isn't necessarily. Nor is trust something that is in their nature – at least, not when it comes to each other. She eventually grows comfortable with this notion - that shall be their steadiness.

Tom, for his part, never seems to particularly ponder the more questionable parts of their relationship. Then again, he is what makes up the questionable parts.

**-XXX-**

1948 comes and Hermione can barely believe that she's been here for nearly two entire years. She takes to staring in mirrors for long periods of time. He knows it is not vanity – she is looking for changes in her own face. Tom does not offer any words of support. He simple pulls her away from the looking glass whenever he catches her at it.

They celebrate a slightly belated birthday on New Year's Day. Hermione is surprised he selects a muggle French restaurant for his celebratory dinner. In turn, he is equally startled to hear her order in smooth French. The waiter is pleased, and pours them both an extra measure of wine when she politely engages him in a brief conversation.

"I did not realized you spoke anything beyond English," he remarks.

"Well, you also did not know I could read runes."

Tom purses his lips. "You did tell me you could not, if you will recall."

She ducks her head, grinning. "Did I?"

Their food arrives. Tom eats steadily, but Hermione is too busy looking around at the other patrons.

"What is it?"

"Hm?" She turns her wide brown deer-like eyes upon him. "Oh, sorry. It's just, well, I've not been in the muggle part of London for sometime," the witch says softly. "I've missed it, a little. M-muggles, I mean."

"Yes." He sips his wine thoughtfully. Her statement nearly unsettles him. "I forgot – you're muggleborn. This must feel so natural to you."

"Does it not feel normal to you?" She frowns. "You spent half your life muggle. It may not have been a nice life, but it was yours."

He smiles indulgently, patiently. Almost dangerously. "I was never muggle, Hermione."

"You know what I mean."

"I do not miss it, no. But you do?"

"Yes. Sometimes. It seems things were simpler then. But I'm sure everything was seen through rose-colored glasses, back then, being a child, you know." She stirs her soup, eyes downcast. "But never mind."

"Hermione." He reaches across the table to clasp her hand. "I should very much like to know your life."

"I am sure you would." Her eyes rise. "You'd like to have a forecast for the future, wouldn't you?"

A crooked smile tugs at his lips. "You know me too well," he allows. "Why not, Hermione?"

She laughs. It is abrupt and all together too loud. Several of the other tables look over, brows furrowed.

"It doesn't matter," she chants quietly. "It doesn't matter, Tom, for it's all been messed up anyhow."

"How?" he asks earnestly. "How has it been altered?"

But she will not answer. Instead, Hermione poses her own question: "Would you like to open your gift?"

He does. It's a book – no surprise there – about the history of voiceless magic. But that is not all. There is also a very nice hat of silk-lined wool felt, a box of Belgium chocolates, and a new cloak. It's jet black, lined with emerald velvet, and a silver serpentine clasp. Tom does not know where these boxes come from – she'd not brought them in with her, they simply appear up from under the table. He leans over the table to kiss her, whispering a _"thank you"_ against her reddening cheek.

**-XXX-**

"Do you hate muggles?"

He is in the midst of paperwork when the question arises. He frowns, brows furrowing at the black-and-white print before looking up. "What?"

Impatient, she repeats the question. "Do you hate muggles, Tom?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"One you have yet to answer."

Tom considers this for a moment. "No. No, I'd say not."

"Why?"

His frown deepens. "Another peculiar question, Hermione. I don't know, I simply do not hate them. Dislike a few, certainly. I generally prefer to avoid them. It's my nature, really, being Sytherine. Just as it is your nature to be foolhardy, my Griffyndor."

She does not respond, stroking a purring Nyx, suddenly entranced by the fire.

**-XXX-**

They are rarely apart now. He has all but moved into her flat. He has half of the closet, a side of the bed, and shelf on the medicine cabinet (giving Hermione plenty of fuel for teasing him about his fixation with his hair). Recently, he suggested they move into a bigger apartment – he is earning more now that he's moved up from shopboy to Ministry official, they could afford a nicer flat. But she is reluctant.

"Maybe in a few months," she says. "I'd like to wait for my application to Mungo's to go through."

She has applied to the healer training program at St. Mungos. He was quite pleases to hear of her ambition and had praised her upon hearing the news.

He'd rather get a new place sooner rather than later, but is willing to wait. It would be nice to have his own space, or perhaps a bigger room for a bigger bed. Hermione is a "sprawler" when she sleeps – but that is only a minor problem in comparison to her night terrors.

They start a few months after he prevents her from time travel. Or, perhaps before then. He wasn't living with Hermione then.

When he did notice them, it was quite flooring. She would start by crying softly, growing eventually louder, tossing then thrashing, calling out for people he doesn't know – a Harry, a Ron, someone called Luna and a few others. To calm her, she must be pinned down, awaken, then soothed with soft words and hands. Usually she just cries more after realizing it was only a dream. Hermione never shares details of these terrors. She simply lies in the circle of his arms – if she even lets him touch her – and shakes.

"I didn't think it was real," she sobs. "I didn't believe – Oh! Oh my…."

Sometimes her anxiety is so great she works herself up into a state of being unable to breath. He rubs her chest then, whispering calmly, pleading with her to pull herself together. Then Hermione's eyes will open wide, mouth a gape. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and allows herself to relax.

These attacks do not happen too often – perhaps once every other week or so. But it is enough to remind them both of the sins committed against her.

**-XXX-**

Sometimes, when she wakes, she cries out for fear of seeing him looming over her. His face is not serpentine, but it possesses familiar traces of the terror that haunted her childhood. The gaunt paleness, his sharp features enhanced by shadows, he still looks like the Dark Lord.

She only has to see the concern in his eyes to know that the enemy she faces in bed isn't the same as the one she fought at Hogwarts. At least, not quiet.

" _It's Tom, it's Tom, it's only Tom,"_ she chants silently to herself.

A small, nasty voice will arise from the back of her mind, cajoling. _"Precisely."_

She does her best to ignore that voice.

**-XXX-**

"Why won't you tell me?" he asks. His lips, smooth and rose-colored, pout slightly as he runs a hand down her lightly. The hairs on her skin rise.

Hermione tilts her head up to the sun, feeling its warmth, the wind, tasting the spring's damp lightness of flowers and rain. She has missed fresh air. It was really too kind of Tom to take her to the countryside today.

"Because," she answers simply. Childishly.

For that he sits up from her lap, where his head has been resting, to glare playfully at her.

"Why ever not, Hermione? I already know your name, among other things? Why not this one little detail?"

She smiles down at him, silent.

Feeling rather provoked, Tom tickles her sides until Hermione keels over from laughter. He looms over her, pushing back a few pieces of her unruly mane, eyes locked.

"Will you not tell me?" he whispers, lips mere inches above her lips.

"No," she whispers back before he kisses her.

**-XXX-**

"Have you ever wanted to go to Europe?"

He eyes the window of the café as Hermione waits, her fingers circling the rim of her cappuccino. Tom seems to analyze the question thoroughly before answering.

"I did, once. But it didn't really fit with the circumstances."

"Why? Why did you want to go?"

"I suspect you already know," he replies dryly. "You're fishing. There are many opportunities for me in Europe."

"But?" she asks archly, brows rising.

"But, as I said, circumstances prevented me." Tom looks back towards her, lips pursed in a vague amusement. "I decided that it would be more beneficial for me to stay in England. The goals I wish to achieve are better met here than a sea away."

It was rather fortunate, then, that Hermione had wandered her way into his life. Having a reason to stay on the continent proved to be rather helpful. True, he had to reimagine his path a little, but in the end, it would be worth it. He would change the wizarding world and it would be with Hermione at his side. She was no pawn like Abraxas and Cygnus – Hermione was to be his rook, his support, making moves with him rather than at his command.

"Why do you ask, Hermione?"

She considers what to say for a long moment. "I know that you collect things. And that, if you were to leave for Europe, it would be with somethings that you've collected."

"What somethings?"

Hesitating, Hermione rubs her neck, pulling her cardigan closer. "A necklace, I think. And a cup."

Tom's eyes light up. "A locket?"

With a little more prying, he launches into telling about his collection, how he stole the locket and off of Smith with a memory-removing spell, then moved it to his hiding place with the other things he's found. So far, the collection was rather impressive – the two items stolen off of Smith, his mother's ring, and a diadem that belonged to Ravenclaw. The last object on the list surprises her, and he explains that he went out to seek the diadem in Albania after convincing the Grey Lady to share the location with him.

"So…what are you doing with them?"

He blinks. "They're hidden. Safe."

"And…that's it? You've not cursed them or anything?"

"No." Tom frowns. "In your timeline did I do something to them?"

"I don't know," she answers quickly. "All I know is you had the locket and the cup."

He does not believe her completely, but he digests most of the lie. "I just want to have them," he says blankly. "That's all."

She sips from her mug, eyes sliding to the window. "Where did you hide them?"

A sly smile crosses his face. "Where they belong."

"Hogwarts." It's not a question. "How will you get them back?"

"Oh, undoubtedly when I return for my interview."

She'd forgotten his aspirations to teach someday. Delicately, Hermione asks when he thinks he shall interview. Tom shrugs.

"Probably not for several years. Dippet said he thought I was too young. With my luck, Dumbledore will be headmaster by the time I can get an application through. "

"Why do you think Dumbledore will be headmaster?" She crosses her legs beneath the table.

Tom leans back. "I have no doubt he will be headmaster one day. He's one of Armando favorites, he's the most famous wizard of the last two decades aside from maybe Grindlewald."

"And you would work under him."

"If that's what it takes," he says with great resolve.

She's surprised. Hermione knew he was quite determined to reestablish himself at Hogwarts – in her time, they had suspected that he planned to make it the seat of his throne over the wizarding world following the Final Battle. But this is quite a different plan, a more docile plan. Tom Riddle, willing to work for Albus Dumbledore? Had someone suggested it to her two years ago she would have laughed in their face.

Her silence is bothering him, and Tom taps the tabletop in mild irritation. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm…surprised."

He accepts the honesty in this. "I know I'm in a good position at the Ministry. It's a good job for me, really, but not where I wish to make my career. Hogwarts is home to me. The first place I fit in, the first place I felt welcomed and safe. I'd like to give others the same experience."

Pity twinges in her briefly. Hermione brushes this away swiftly. She knows how he feels about pity, particularly when it is directed towards him.

"Even muggleborns?" she asks in disbelief.

"They'll need it." Tom shrugs. "I'd give up my work at the Ministry in a minute if I could have a position at Hogwarts. I know it sounds mad –"

She suddenly reaches for his hands. "No," she says earnestly. "Not mad, Tom. It's wonderful."

He can only smile.

**-XXX-**

1950 arrives. They're at a Ministry-sponsored New Year's gala to welcome in the new decade. He only makes a few scathing remarks about the "Gryffindor quality" of her golden dress. Hermione, in turn, makes sure to step on his feet at least three times while dancing. Tom smiles the entire time, even when she stomps his toes.

"Alright, that one actually hurt," he says through one his more grimaced smiles.

She purses her lips in amusement. "What, dearest?"

Tom spins her abruptly, nearly knocking the witch off balance. Hermione catches his arm, falling into him with a laugh. Her eyes are sparkling like mad, some of her wild hair falling around her face out of the fancy knot she'd charmed it into earlier in the evening. They've both had quite a bit of punch and are therefore a smidge tipsy. He's a little off on his dancing, not that Hermione – who is clumsy even in the best of times – notices.

Her arms lace around his neck as the countdown begins. All voices are merry. _"Ten, nine, eight…"_

"Happy Birthday, Tom."

_"Seven, six, five…"_

"It's about time you remembered!"

"Don't be daft, of course I remembered. There will be a cake soon, just after this. Chocolate cherry coconut, just how you like it. They're all prepared to sing."

He rolls his eyes, but pulls her closer, arm folding across her back neatly, chests brushing one another in a comfortable, casual way.

_"Four, three…"_

"Love you," she whispers, lips hovering just above his.

"So cliché," he whispers back before claiming her lip in an even more cliché manner.

**-XXX-**

A good part of her does not want to admit that in all honesty, things are…well, quite fine. Despite the major slip in the timeline, the world hasn't not fallen apart, London isn't going to pieces, and Tom is being quite Tom-like indeed. He still has moments, naturally, when his eyes gleam, his voice grows high and cold, and he grips her just a little too tightly. Even then, she knows him to be Tom, not any sort of Lord Voldemort.

There are still the occasional late-night visits from darkly cloaked strangers. She does not know what they discuss in the foyer or the corridors near the kitchen. She simply hugs herself, back against their headboard, head on her knees as she makes out the slight hint whispering. When they leave, she can sometimes hear the murmur of _"my lord."_

Still, she does not worry. His schemes are known to her. Tom is anything if not honest.

She started her healer training about a year and a half ago, shortly after they bought the house. Tom had surprised her with the real estate wizard one morning. "We need to expand," he explained as he helped her slip into a coat. "He's got a few listings in the city that will suit us."

They ended up settling for a two-story in Battersea. It's far more spacious than their flat, bright, with the Thames visible from nearly every window. Hermione would prefer the country, but Tom insists that, for the moment, it is best for both of their careers that they stay in London. Hermione reluctantly agrees.

Her career is going a little slowly in comparison to Tom's. He has excelled in Ministry, becoming a deputy head of his department. In the coming months he will likely be promoted to a ministerial advisor. Hermione is still a student, something like a nurse in the world of wizarding health. Her work at St. Mungo's has been described as "exemplary" by Healer Heartwook, the head of the trainees. She's been assured that, should she continue at her current rate, she will be made a healer before autumn.

"We're a power couple," she says when he comes home after a satisfying day of arguing with other department heads over a policy change regarding transport and oblivating muggles.

Thoughtfully, he regards the window. "I suppose we are."

**-XXX-**


	10. Chapter 10

**-XXX-**

Somewhere down the line, Hermione is aware that she has become content in this life-of-the-past. The thought temporary unsettles her. But not so much that she allows herself to ponder for too much longer - something the Hermione of 2000 wouldn't have been the least bit keen over. She wasn't one for stewing, really, but definitely consideration. Hermione of the mid-twentieth century has a different policy on things: don't question what you don't want to know.

It's how she's steadfastly avoided knowledge of Tom's less-than-perhaps-legal goings-on. At the very least, she knows that there are less-than-perhaps-legal business occurring. But, in comparison to a brutal genocide of all non-magical peoples, Tom's meddlings appear to be relatively minor. Black market trades and that sort of thing.

She doesn't ask – she doesn't wish to know. Hermione's Tom is a witty fellow who abhors sarcasm from anyone but himself, spends too much time in second-hand bookshops, hates looking the least bit shabby, is as tempermental as a cat, prefers an immaculate kitchen, and likes his tea without sugar or cream, just plain. He's nothing like the bald, snake-like, red-eyed, marble-skinned maniac with a ego the size of Wales.

Except when he is. Which, thankfully, is not often.

She's only seen him that angry a few times. Coming home after a long day of bureaucracy, fury like a whirlwind, sweeping her up into his rage. His eyes flashed scarlet, the one remnant of the creature of hate that she knew. He blasted furniture to bits. Once their home is destroyed he turned to the garden. Thankfully, they'd installed silencing wards almost from the moment they moved in. Hermione will sit by the window, trying to focus on _The Daily Prophet's_ drivel rather than the sound of her boyfriend tearing apart their back garden.

Sometime around twilight he'll return to her, out of breath, chest heaving, tie askew, hair terribly mussed. Oftentimes with long slashing cuts upon his face and arms as though he misaimed a cutting spell.

Hermione always lets him in, holding back all remarks. She sits the wizard down in one of their well-worn armchairs and cleans his wounds, summoning biscuits and then bustling to the kitchen for tea – tea being such a finicky beverage that no amount of magic could make a tasty cup.

Eventually, he'll resume speaking – voice always a little hoarse. It won't be about his outburst. Always an observation about something more mundane.

"Venus is particularly red tonight," he will say blankly. Or, "There are no snakes in London."

She never quite knows what to do with these statements.

**-XXX-**

Ministerial advisor suits Tom Riddle well. His rise – anticipated, welcomed by co-workers – has put the young man on the right track. The precise rung of the ladder that he'd planned upon. At this rate, he could easily become Minister by forty, if not sooner. _"And if I had such ambitions."_

He takes great pride in his office. It is immaculate, simple, containing only the necessarily furniture, orderly papers and files, a few helpful tomes, and a picture of himself and Hermione.

The Minister notes the photo one day a few months after Tom is installed. "Your wife?" he asks.

Tom spares a glance at the photograph. Hermione is half-turned, leaning against him in bright laughter. It's from New Years a few years ago. He suspects that they are slightly intoxicated. The motions are not smooth, not precise enough to suggest sobriety.

"Ah, not quite. Girlfriend."

The elder wizard nods. "She's lovely. How long have you been together?"

"Oh," Tom pauses. "Five years, I think."

"Some time." The Minister raises his brow. "Better pop the question to that one soon. Witches like that don't hang around long."

It strikes Tom that the Minister doesn't really know him at all. So, he smiles blandly. "I'll certainly consider it, sir."

**-XXX-**

St. Mungo's is a wonderful fit for a brilliant young witch. But, despite her passion for goodness and helping others, she quickly finds herself bored. Her supervisor gently suggests that she might find herself better occupied in the research division. She takes his suggestion and applies. They interview her a month later. In two months Hermione is accepted.

Tom takes her out to dinner to celebrate. He admires her shining sliver-white robes, smoothing the sleeves as they stand on their stoop.

"I never thought I'd be so settled here," she says softly. "I never meant to stay…."

They rarely speak of Hermione's condition. Something twinges in Riddle's eyes at her reminder. She sooths him with a hand to his cheek. His skin is cold.

"But sometimes – most of the time – I am glad that I did."

He glares mockingly. Hermione leans up to kiss him, smiling into the embrace.

"I'm glad I kept you."

She hits him lightly on the nose. "I'm still not pleased about that, Tom," she admonishes. "And I'm nothing for keeping – like a dog or vase or book."

"Nonsense. I'm keeping you."

The witch rolls her eyes. "Not with an attitude like that, Mr. Riddle. Selfish."

But she kisses him again anyways. They're both a little selfish, to be entirely honest.

**-XXX-**

The encounter was unexpected – as most are. She'd nearly forgotten that

Dumbledore still existed in this time. So, running into him at her place of word scared the young witch silly.

"Miss Garner!" he cries happily. "What a pleasure!"

Hermione immediately felt guilty. She never replied to Dumbledore's last few letters. How could she tell him she was now shacking up with the man she'd sworn was going to turn out to be the most notorious wizard of all time? Dumbledore's least favorite student? Shame and embarrassment prevent her from reaching out, and slowly, the letters had stopped coming.

"Professor Dumbledore," she replied after accepting his embrace, pressing the files she had been carrying close to her chest. "How are you?"

"I am doing well, my girl. And you appear to be rather grand yourself. Congratulations on your placement within St. Mungo's."

She accepts the praise, bowing her head. "What brings you here, sir?"

The older wizard lifts up a bouquet of daffodils. "Visiting an old friend. They were in a spot of trouble with a knarl. Thought they could use some cheering up."

"How kind of you.'

An awkward pause follows.

"You and Mr. Riddle are making quite a splash. Never a week when your names are not in the society papers."

She winces. "Yes. Um. We are. Tom…Tom's made ministerial advisor! He's doing quite well."

"Yes. Better than I had anticipated." His words are heavy.

"Me as well," she says softly. "I am rather proud of him."

"You believe he is on a better path now?" The professor leans in, brushy brows furrowed. "Can you live with him like this?"

"Well –" she stutters. "Yes. Everything is…different, you know."

"Is it?"

"Trust me," Hermione says, eyes flashing. "I know."

The elder wizard regards her for a long moment before leaning away. His gaze is guarded, yet thoughtful. "Yes. Yes, I believe you do." He brightens. "What a delight it has been to see you, Miss Garner. We must have lunch again soon. The Three Brooksticks now serves the most delicious sheppard's pie, you must make the journey to Hogsmead to give it a taste."

"I would like that."

"We'll strike up a correspondence again, and set the date," he agrees. "I know how busy you must be, being a researcher."

"Yes," Hermione murmurs with a subdued smile. "Quite. I look forward to our next meeting, Professor."

"Albus, dear."

She never resumes their correspondence, and they're merely distantly polite the next several times they meet. While her association with his least favorite student has placed Hermione Granger on the blacklist, he maintains a sort of cordial fondness for her that refuses to wane. Especially seeing as it appears Mr. Riddle has turned out to be not-so-bad after all. For the moment, anyways.

**-XXX-**

Research suits her just fine. It's not so interpersonal as Hermione had once imagined her career to be, but that seems to work well for the witch, who has only ever held a small circle of friends in her life. She's friendly, yes, polite, yet Hermione is not what one would call a "people person." Which is why studying the properties of Gorgetian Gingeroot and Sicilian Cactus in a windowless laboratory is, perhaps, the perfect position for her.

She's even gotten a little academic and written papers. Under the name "Beatrice Garner," but that's no matter. It's nothing worth an Order of Merlin of any class, but she gets positive critiques. Her name is whispered at the international conferences. Before her third year is up she's even been asked to be a keynote speaker as the Welsh All-National Conference of Healers (or WANCOH, as it's lovingly referred to). Her research is nothing incredibly ground-breaking, however, she's making a bit of a name for herself in certain circles. She finds that she does not mind.

St. Mungo's certainly knows that they have a gem on their hands. Hermione quickly rises up from being a lab assistant to the master of her own private laboratory, conducting her own research, mentoring other young researchers. She's no one's first choice of a teacher – something about hints of condescension – but every student grudging admits her to be vastly skilled.

Tom teases her that she's no longer got her head suck in a book, it's her ass in a lab now that she's got aims of writing her own tome. "Nonsense, I've not the slightest idea what I might write about. No one wants to hear about the seven uses of mandrake leaves."

"True," Tom always readily agrees. "But that doesn't mean it isn't worth putting down."

The idea sticks. One day he comes home to find her at the dining room table, clacking away at a use typewriter she'd picked up in muggle London.

"The middle of the 'e' is slanted funny," she complains. Tom hardly makes an effort to hide his smile.

**-XXX-**

It's January of 1954. Hermione has been by his side for nearly seven years – _"It feels like all the time and no time at all,"_ – and Tom cannot get the niggling words of the minister from his mind. The echoes of the man's advice finds him standing before the window of a muggle jewelry shop one snowy afternoon. He'd gone on a walk, hoping the brisk air might clear his head. Instead, he found himself lingering at the glass, eyes drawn to the sparkling baubles within. A little old man in spectacles within the shop approaches the display to adjust the velvet. His gaze meets Tom's. With a small smile, he beckon the wizard in.

"You're thinking of making the leap," he declares as Tom brushes snowflakes from the lapel of his coat. "But don't know where to start?"

Gritting his teeth, the young wizard admits that yes, he was thinking about asking his significant other for a deeper commitment. Tom grudgingly acknowledges that this little old muggle man might just be more experienced in this particular field.

"Well, let's start here…what's her style?"

Almost an hour later, Tom Riddle leaves the muggle jewelry shop, pocketing a small black velvet box. The ring inside is simple - a white gold band with a solitary white diamond flanked by a pair of smaller black stones. Later that week, he'll present it, heart in his throat, to an exceptionally surprised Hermione.

She slips the ring on with wonder, blinking at the jewelry slowly. Beside her, the young wizard hesitant, wanting to clarify, repeat the question, fill the blank space – but he's never been one for breaking necessary silence. After a long, painfully long moment, the witch nods. She's breathless, lightheaded, which is only intensified when he kisses her hard on the mouth.

A month later they're married before a judge. It's small, quiet, intensely private ceremony – precisely their style. They get a single line in the _Prophet_ , then a few cards and gifts by owl the next week. Other that that, their life resumes its typical schedule of normalcy. The only difference, of course, being that every-so-often a faint twinkle from Hermione's hand will catch Tom's eye. A possessive pride wells up in his chest, and he rarely resists the desire to catch her hand or kiss her on the temple.

**-XXX-**

An owl arrives midmorning one Saturday in 1957. Hermione accepts the envelop after feeding the moon-faced barn owl a treat. To her surprise, the seal contains the Hogwarts crest. It's address to Tom.

When she returns to him on the couch, passing him the letter than resuming her books, the witch keenly awaits his reaction to the correspondence. She is not disappointed. Tom opens the letter interestedly. When he's done he sets the letter down on the coffee table with a satisfied smile.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Professor Dumbledore wishes to schedule an interview with me next week." This is said smugly.

"Your application got through!" she exclaims. "For the Defense Against the Dark Arts post?"

"Yes." He's restraining a smile.

They celebrate with a plate of biscuits from the bakery down the street and some wine. Hermione's uncertainty is easily masked by letting him talk through his excitement.

"I've wanted this for ages," he reminds her. "Since before I graduated."

"I know."

Hesitant, he makes a request. "Do you know…if I get the post? Is that part of my history?"

She's never answered a question like that before, so Hermione is surprised he's even bothered to ask. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she stares into the fire. Though it is springtime, the chill has stubbornly refused to leave.

"I don't know," she lies. But it's not a lie, really. This is a new timeline. A new life. A new Tom. "Truly."

This doesn't not appear to bother him. He kisses her temple, tracing the edges of the parchment again. He's not let the note from out of his site since it was delivered nearly two hours ago. The uncharacteristically childlike anticipation pulls at her heartstrings almost cruelly. _"Surely Dumbledore does not mean to taunt him."_

**-XXX-**

As it turns out, the new headmaster doesn't tease at all. He is very interested in hiring Tom – wary, but interested. Tom regales Hermione with the story of the interview. To his surprise Dumbledore was cautiously civil, warm even. They spoke at length on Ministry matters before turning to the position. Tom gave a demonstrative lecture, cast a few complex spells, then got down to the business of what kind of curriculum he would offer. Their conversation supposedly went quite well.

"He even asked after you, Hermione. Said he regretted not being able to making to the wedding but had some business in India." Tom scoffed lightly. "Don't know if I believe that. Still, it went unbelievably well. I've got that old coger wrapped around my finger."

"I'm still surprised he even gave you an interview," his wife replies dryly from the threshold of the their kitchen. "Dumbledore isn't your number one fan by any means, Tom."

"No," he agrees readily, turning to her. Hermione finds herself swept up in some kind of music-less waltz around their kitchen. "You're right. However, I think he managed to find some kind of redeemable qualities within me – thanks to you, dearest."

Now it is Hermione's turn to scoff. "I highly doubt –"

"He _particularly_ mentioned your ability to find a 'good strong light within every soul you encounter,' or some such nonsense."

"Whatever that means," the witch murmurs as her husband dipped her low for a kiss.

**-XXX-**

The owl congratulating Tom for his new position as Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry arrived by the end of the following week. Following a celebratory lunch, he met with his superiors at the Ministry to hand in his resignation. They were understandably surprised.

"You take after ol' Albus, boy," one department head had growled. "Brilliant mind at politics, but he only ever wanted to stay holed up in that school."

Tom cannot really see this remark as a compliment. But it is no matter. He's gotten everything he has ever wanted in the twelve years since graduating from Hogwarts. Nothing can possibly bring him down.

**-XXX-**

_"Lily Evans!"_ the hat cries.

A flash of copper catches her eye and Hermione freezes. She had not anticipated this.

 _"You certainly should have," s_ he chides herself, pushing back a few strands that have strayed from her bun. Then she winces upon noting the silvery tinge to them. Forty came and went a long time ago. She's still not used to being middle-aged.

Hermione pushes this thought aside to focus on the sorting. The young girl who recently glided up to the stool sits with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her wide green eyes scan the room. They don't even rest on Hermione for a moment, yet, her heartaches. _"Just like Harry."_

Tom's fingertips brush hers. She smiles at him tightly.

Remus, James, Sirius, Peter, and Severus Snape are all sorted in a matter of minutes. The hall rings out in applause after Dumbledore's speech, though whether it is a display of school spirit or an expression of hunger she'll never know. The headmaster nods to the both as he makes his way back to the head table. Tom returns the gesture on behalf of both of them.

"A new crop," he murmurs excitedly. "Think I'll begin with scaring them with a grindylow tomorrow."

"Tom, you know that's too advanced," his wife scolds. While not a full-time staff member, Hermione did have the distinct honor of sitting at the head table – a few years ago Tom had suggested (without her knowledge, naturally) that students interested in pursuing healing as a career might benefit from a few healer-specific courses. Dumbledore got the hint and proposed the idea to Hermione. She's fumed at her husband – "Meddling in my affairs!" – then happily accepted the post.

"We shall pick the strong from the weak," Tom enthused.

"Or the weak from the weaker," she mocks. More serious, Hermione adds, "You've got quite a powerful lot in this class. Watch out for Evans and Potter. Two of the brightest of their age, I guarantee you. Snape as well, I should say. Yes, 1974 is a big addition for Hogwarts."

He glances at her curiously. It is rare that his wife should mention anything so taboo as another's future. He has pleaded and cajoled and harassed for decades.

"Is that so?"

She smiles, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair thoughtfully. Once, she'd wondered aloud if his previous self, the self she had known in her youth, ever managed to look like this. He'd never really understood what she meant. Tom took it as a compliment nonetheless.

Her eyes drift to the sea of youths throughout the meal. It settles on a select few – primarily Evans and Potter, at the Gryffindor table, as well as Snape and several others he cannot name. _"People from her past, no doubt."_ He wonders if she knew them, or knew of them. Hermione has resisted naming the precise date of disappearance into the past. Even after all of these years Tom has not used any manner of spell to persuade the answers from her mind – "Unsportsmanlike," he'd had explained once. He knows it is far-off, distant enough to not make her too nervous. Would he one day live to see a younger bushy-haired Hermione ascend the dais to let the Sorting Hat find her place in the school?

"Pass a treacle tart, would you, dear?"

Startled from his musing, Tom reaches for the dessert. Hermione accepts it, spooning herself a portion before reaching for the chocolate mousse for Tom. She makes sure to grab some of the whipped cream.

"Thank you," he says. "Will you leave before the school song?"

"You know I hate to miss it. No, I'll wait."

After the school has finished belting out the cheerful (if a bit ridiculous, in Tom's mind) tune and is sent to bed he rises from the table. Hermione is laughing lightly.

"It's funny, the teachers' attitude towards the song has not changed at all from now to my time." She's so sentimental at these Sorting nights.

Rounding the table, he takes up his wife's hand. " _I am more than ready to go home…."_ He could use a glass of whisky and an hour of quiet before the fire. Tomorrow there is no doubt his sixth years shall put him through the wringer. _"We'll see how they will fare with the voiceless duels."_

He takes pause – Hermione is not beside him. She's a few steps behind, eyes locked on the double doors, where the teens are slowly filing out, taking time to catch up with friends. Following her gaze, he sees that she is again transfixed by the pair Evans and Potter. They're talking to one another. Evans has her arms crossed. Despite being a muggleborn, she does not appear terribly overwhelmed. Or, Tom notes wryly, particularly impressed with Mr. Potter. Snape is behind her, and he too looks a little disgusted with the messy-haired Potter boy. Tom turns to ask his wife what is so intriguing about the children, but is stopped by the expression on her face – wistful and teary-eyed.

"What is it?"

She seemed to shake herself from the reverie. "Oh. Oh! Nothing. It's just…I sometimes miss being that age."

Tom is skeptical. In fact, he's nearly certain she's lying. Hermione tends to touch her wrist when she lies. "Really?

"Only sometimes," Hermione admits.

Shaking his head, her husband extends a hand. "Come on, before you get too sentimental. Let's go home."

"Yes. Let's."

**-XXX-**

Somehow, the perfectly-punctual Tom Riddle wakes up almost an hour late the next morning. Upon seeing the alarm clock, he rises swiftly from bed, cursing loudly. Hermione, who lay beside him, fluttered her eyes before turning into her pillow. Unfortunately, she is not long for sleep – Tom's crashing about soon roused the witch. With a glare, she slowly sits up to find him struggling with putting on a sock half-standing.

"What. Are. You. Doing?" she hisses.

"Late," he pants.

Though tempted to stun him, the witch removes herself from her bed to head to the kitchen. "I'll make you breakfast."

When he meets her in the kitchen five minutes later she shoves him a sandwich, presses a warm kiss into his cheek, then, pulling her bathrobe tightly about her, storms back into their bedroom. He doesn't follow, but does call after her, "Have a good day, dearest."

With that, the One-Who-Was-Once-the-Dark-Lord rushed to his start-of-the-morning third years' class.

**-XXX-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


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